If 


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PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


DAWN.     Illustrated. 

OH,   MONEY!  MONEY!    Illustrated. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING.     Illustrated. 

JUST  DAVID.     Illustrated. 


DAWN 


"  I  MUST  GO,  NOW.   I  —  MUST  —  GO!  "    (Page  326) 


DAWN 

BY 
ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 


With  Illustrations  by 
Lucius  Wolcott  Hitchcock 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Cbt  &tbtrsitif  33ress  Cambriist 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,   1918,  BY  MCCALL'S  MAGAZINE 
COPYRIGHT,  I919,  BY  ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 

ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  March  iqrq 


To  My  Friend 
MRS.  JAMES  D.  PARKER 


c\r\r\r~  s-**-\  **. 


CONTENTS 

I.  The  Great  Terror 1 

II.  Dad         13 

III.  For  Jerry  and  Ned 25 

IV.  School 31 

V.  Waiting 43 

VI.  Lights  Out 51 

VII.  Susan  to  the  Rescue 60 

VIII.  Aunt  Nettie  Meets  her  Match       ...  76 

IX.  Susan  Speaks  her  Mind 88 

X.  And  Nettie  Colebrook  Speaks  Hers     .       .  94 
XI.  Not  Pats  but  Scratches     .       .       .       .       .105 

XII.  Callers  for  "Keithie" 113 

XIII.  Free  Verse— a  la  Susan 122 

XTV.  A  Surprise  All  Around 128 

XV.  Again  Susan  Takes  a  Hand     ...       .       .  140 

XVI.  The  Worry  of  It 152 

XVn.  Daniel  Burton  Takes  the  Plunge  .       .       .163 

XVIII.  "Miss  Stewart"  .       ......  172 

XIX.  A  Matter  of  Letters 181 

XX.  With  Chin  Up 187 

XXI.  The  Lion 196 


viii  CONTENTS 

XXII.  How  could  you,  Mazie?       ....  204 

XXIII.  John  McGuire 215 

XXTV.  As  Susan  Saw  It 230 

XXV.  Keith  to  the  Rescue 237 

XXVI.  Mazie  Again 251 

XXVII.  For  the  Sake  of  John 265 

XXVIII.  The  Way 273 

XXIX.  Dorothy  Tries  her  Hand      .       .       .       .282 

XXX.  Daniel  Burton's  "Job"        .       .       .       .  294 

XXXI.  What  Susan  did  not  See      ...      .  303 

XXXII.  The  Key 313 

XXXIII.  And  All  on  Account  of  Susan     .      .      .321 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"I  must  go,  now.  I  —  must  —  go!"    .       .  Frontispiece 

Susan  Betts  talking  with  Mrs.  McGuire  over  the 
back-yard  fence 2 

"Want  you?  I  always  want  you!"       ....    20 

"You've  helped  more  —  than  you'll  ever  know"  .  200 

He  gave  her  almost  no  chance  to  say  anything  her- 
self        212 

Keith's  arm  shot  out  and  his  hand  fell,  covering 
hers 220 

It  was  well  that  the  Japanese  screen  on  the  front 
piazza  was  down 326 


DAWN 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  GREAT  TERROR 

IT  was  on  his  fourteenth  birthday  that  Keith 
Burton  discovered  the  Great  Terror,  though  he 
did  not  know  it  by  that  name  until  some  days  after- 
ward. He  knew  only,  to  his  surprise  and  distress, 
that  the  "Treasure  Island,"  given  to  him  by  his 
father  for  a  birthday  present,  was  printed  in  type 
so  blurred  and  poor  that  he  could  scarcely  read  it. 

He  said  nothing,  of  course.  In  fact  he  shut  the 
book  very  hastily,  with  a  quick,  sidewise  look,  lest 
his  father  should  see  and  notice  the  imperfection 
of  his  gift. 

Poor  father!  He  would  feel  so  bad  after  he  had 
taken  all  that  pains  and  spent  all  that  money  — 
and  for  something  not  absolutely  necessary,  too! 
And  then  to  get  cheated  like  that.  For,  of  course, 
he  had  been  cheated  —  such  horrid  print  that  no- 
body could  read. 

But  it  was  only  a  day  or  two  later  that  Keith 
found  some  more  horrid  print.  This  time  it  was  in 
his  father's  weekly  journal  that  came  every  Satur- 
day morning.  He  found  it  again  that  night  in  a 
magazine,  and  yet  again  the  next  day  in  the  Sun- 
day newspaper. 


2  DAWN 

Then,  before  he  had  evolved  a  satisfactory  ex- 
planation in  his  own  mind  of  this  phenomenon,  he 
heard  Susan  Betts  talking  with  Mrs.  McGuire  over 
the  back-yard  fence. 

Susan  Betts  began  the  conversation.  But  that 
was  nothing  strange:  Susan  Betts  always  began  the 
conversation. 

"Have  you  heard  about  poor  old  Harrington?" 
she  demanded  in  what  Keith  called  her  "exciting- 
est"  voice.  Then,  as  was  always  the  case  when  she 
spoke  in  that  voice,  she  plunged  on  without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  as  if  fearful  lest  her  bit  of  news  fall  from 
the  other  pair  of  lips  first.  "Well,  he's  blind  — 
stone  blind.  He  could  n't  see  a  dollar  bill  —  not  if 
you  shook  it  right  before  his  eyes." 

"Sho!  you  don't  say!"  Mrs.  McGuire  dropped 
the  wet  sheet  back  into  the  basket  and  came  to  the 
fence  on  her  side  concernedly.  "Now,  ain't  that 
too  bad?" 

"Yes,  ain't  it?  An'  he  so  kind,  an*  now  so  blind! 
It- jest  makes  me  sick."  Susan  whipped  open  the 
twisted  folds  of  a  wet  towel.  Susan  seldom  stopped 
her  work  to  talk.  "But  I  saw  it  comin'  long  ago. 
An'  he  did,  too,  poor  man!" 

Mrs.  McGuire  lifted  a  bony  hand  to  her  face 
and  tucked  a  flying  wisp  of  hair  behind  her  right 
ear. 

"Then  if  he  saw  it  comin',  why  could  n't  he  do 
somethin'  to  stop  it?"  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  could  n't.  Dr.  Chandler 
said  he  could  n't.  An'  they  had  a  man  up  from  Bos- 


U-.M 


SUSAN  BETTS  TALKING  WITH  MRS. 


JIRE  OVER  THE  BACK- YARD  FENCE 


THE  GREAT  TERROR  3 

ton  —  one  of  them  eye  socialists  what  does  n't  doc- 
tor any  thin'  but  eyes  —  an'  he  said  he  could  n't." 

Keith,  on  his  knees  before  the  beet-bed  adjoining 
the  clothes-yard,  sat  back  on  his  heels  and  eyed 
the  two  women  with  frowning  interest. 

He  knew  old  Mr.  Harrington.  So  did  all  the  boys. 
Never  was  there  a  kite  or  a  gun  or  a  jack-knife  so 
far  gone  that  Uncle  Joe  Harrington  could  not  "fix 
it"  somehow.  And  he  was  always  so  jolly  about  it, 
and  so  glad  to  do  it.  But  it  took  eyes  to  do  such 
things,  and  if  now  he  was  going  to  be  blind  — 

"An'  you  say  it's  been  comin'  on  gradual?" 
questioned  Mrs.  McGuire.  "Why,  I  hadn't 
heard  — " 

"No,  there  hain't  no  one  heard,"  interrupted 
Susan.  "He  did  n't  say  nothin'  ter  nobody,  hardly, 
only  me,  I  guess,  an'  I  suspicioned  it,  or  he  would  n't 
'a'  said  it  to  me,  probably.  Ye  see,  I  found  out  he 
wa'n't  readin'  'em  —  the  papers  Mr.  Burton  has 
me  take  up  ter  him  every  week.  An'  he  owned  up, 
when  I  took  him  ter  task  for  it,  that  he  could  n't 
read  'em.  They  was  gettin'  all  blurred." 

"Blurred?"  It  was  a  startled  little  cry  from  the 
boy  down  by  the  beet-bed;  but  neither  Susan  nor 
Mrs.  McGuire  heard  —  perhaps  because  at  almost 
the  same  moment  Mrs.  McGuire  had  excitedly 
asked  the  same  question. 

"Blurred?"  she  cried. 

"Yes;  all  run  tergether  like  —  the  printin',  ye 
know  —  so  he  could  n't  tell  one  letter  from  t'other. 
'T  wa'n't  only  a  little  at  first.    Why,  he  thought 


4  DAWN 

't  was  jest  somethin'  the  matter  with  the  printin* 
itself;  an'  — " 

"And  was  nH  it  the  printing  at  all  ?" 

The  boy  was  on  his  feet  now.  His  face  was  a  little 
white  and  strained-looking,  as  he  asked  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Why,  no,  dearie.  Did  n't  you  hear  Susan  tell 
Mis'  McGuire  jest  now?  'T  was  his  eyes,  an'  he 
did  n't  know  it.  He  was  gettin'  blind,  an'  that  was 
jest  the  beginnin'." 

Susan's  capable  hands  picked  up  another  wet 
towel  and  snapped  it  open  by  way  of  emphasis. 

"The  b-beginning?"  stammered  the  boy.  "But 
—  but  all  beginnings  don't  —  don't  end  like  that, 
do  they?" 

Susan  Betts  laughed  indulgently  and  jammed  the 
clothespin  a  little  deeper  on  to  the  towel. 

"Bless  the  child !  Won't  ye  hear  that,  now? "  she 
laughed  with  a  shrug.  "An' how  should  I  know?  I 
guess  if  Susan  Betts  could  tell  the  end  of  all  the  be- 
ginnin's  as  soon  as  they  're  begun,  she  would  n't  be 
hangin'  out  your  daddy 's  washin',  my  boy.  She  'd 
be  sittin'  on  a  red  velvet  sofa  with  a  gold  cupola 
over  her  head  a-chargin'  five  dollars  apiece  for 
tellin'  yer  fortune.   Yes,  sir,  she  would!" 

"But  —  but  about  Uncle  Joe,"  persisted  the  boy. 
"Can't  he  really  see  —  at  all,  Susan?" 

"There,  there,  child,  don't  think  anything  more 
about  it.  Indeed,  forsooth,  I'm  tellin'  the  truth, 
but  I  s'pose  I  had  n't  oughter  told  it  before  you. 
Still,  you  'd  'a'  found  it  out  quick  enough  —  an ' 


THE  GREAT  TERROR  5 

you  with  your  tops  an*  balls  always  runnin'  up 
there.  An'  that 's  what  the  poor  soul  seemed  to  feel 
the  worst  about,"  she  went  on,  addressing  Mrs. 
McGuire,  who  was  still  leaning  on  the  division  fence. 
'"If  only  I  could  see  enough  ter  help  the  boys!' 
he  moaned  over  an*  over  again.  It  made  me  feel  aw- 
ful bad.  I  was  that  upset  I  jest  could  n't  sleep  that 
night,  an'  I  had  ter  get  up  an'  write.  But  it  made  a 
real  pretty  poem.  My  fuse  always  works  better  in 
the  night,  anyhow.  'The  wail  of  the  toys'  —  that's 
what  I  called  it  —  had  the  toys  tell  the  story,  ye 
know,  all  the  kites  an'  jack-knives  an'  balls  an' 
bats  that  he 's  fixed  for  the  boys  all  these  years,  an' 
how  bad  they  felt  because  he  could  n't  do  it  any 
more.  Like  this,  ye  know: 

'Oh,  woe  is  me,  said  the  baseball  bat, 
Oh,  woe  is  me,  said  the  kite.' 

'T  was  real  pretty,  if  I  do  say  it,  an'  touchy,  too." 

"For  mercy's  sake,  Susan  Betts,  if  you  ain't  the 
greatest!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  McGuire,  with  disap- 
proving admiration.  "If  you  was  dyin'  I  believe 
you'd  stop  to  write  a  poem  for  yer  gravestone!" 

Susan  Betts  chuckled  wickedly,  but  her  voice 
was  gravity  itself. 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  have  ter  do  that,  Mis'  McGuire. 
I've  got  that  done  already." 

"Susan  Betts,  you  haven't!"  gasped  the  scan- 
dalized woman  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

"Have  n't  I?  Listen,"  challenged  Susan  Betts, 
striking  an  attitude.  Her  face  was  abnormally 
grave,  though  her  eyes  were  merry. 


6  DAWN 

"Here  lieth  a  woman  whose  name  was  Betts, 
An'  I  s'pose  she'll  deserve  whatever  she  gets; 
But  if  she  had  n't  been  Betts  she  might  'a'  been  Better, 
She  might  even  been  Best  if  her  name  would  'a'  let  her." 

"Susan!"  gasped  Mrs.  McGuire  once  more;  but 
Susan  only  chuckled  again  wickedly,  and  fell  to 
work  on  her  basket  of  clothes  in  good  earnest. 

A  moment  later  she  was  holding  up  with  stern 
disapproval  two  socks  with  gaping  heels. 

"Keith  Burton,  here's  them  scandalous  socks 
again !  Now,  do  you  go  tell  your  father  that  I  won't 
touch  'em.  I  won't  mend  'em  another  once.  He 
must  get  you  a  new  pair  —  two  new  pairs,  right 
away.  Do  you  hear?  " 

But  Keith  did  not  hear.  Keith  was  not  there  to 
hear.  Still  with  that  strained,  white  look  on  his 
face  he  had  hurried  out  of  the  yard  and  through  the 
gate. 

Mrs.  McGuire,  however,  did  hear. 

"My  stars,  Susan  Betts,  it's  lucky  your  bark  is 
worse  than  your  bite ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Mend  'em, 
indeed!  They  won't  be  dry  before  you've  got  your 
darnin'  egg  in  'em." 

Susan  laughed  ruefully.  Then  she  sighed:  —  at 
arms'  length  she  was  holding  up  another  pair  of 
yawning  socks. 

"I  know  it.  And  look  at  them,  too,"  she  snapped, 
in  growing  wrath.  "But  what's  a  body  goin'  to  do? 
The  boy'd  go  half -naked  before  his  father  would 
sense  it,  with  his  nose  in  that  paint-box.  Much  as 
ever  as  he 's  got  sense  enough  ter  put  on  his  own 


THE  GREAT  TERROR  7 

clothes  —  and  he  would  n't  know  when  ter  put  on 
clean  ones,  if  I  did  n't  spread  'em  out  for  him ! " 

"I  know  it.  Too  bad,  too  bad,"  murmured  Mrs. 
McGuire,  with  a  virtuous  shake  of  her  head.  "An' 
he  with  his  fine  bringin'-up,  an'  now  to  be  so 
shiftless  an'  good-for-nothin',  an'  — " 

But  Susan  Betts  was  interrupting,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

"If  you  please,  I'll  thank  you  to  say  no  more  like 
that  about  my  master,"  she  said  with  dignity. 
"He's  neither  shiftless,  nor  good-for-nothin'.  His 
character  is  unbleachable !  He's  an  artist  an'  a 
scholar  an'  a  gentleman,  an'  a  very  superlative  man. 
It 's  because  he  knows  so  much  that  —  that  he 
jest  hain't  got  room  for  common  things  like  clothes 
an'  holes  in  socks." 

"Stuff  an'  nonsense!"  retorted  Mrs.  McGuire 
nettled  in  her  turn.  "  I  guess  I  've  known  Dan'l  Bur- 
ton as  long  as  you  have;  an'  as  for  his  bein'  your 
master  —  he  can't  call  his  soul  his  own  when  you're 
around,  an'  you  know  it." 

But  Susan,  with  a  disdainful  sniff,  picked  up  her 
now  empty  clothes-basket  and  marched  into  the 
house. 

Down  the  road  Keith  had  reached  the  turn  and 
was  climbing  the  hill  that  led  to  old  Mr.  Harring- 
ton's shabby  cottage. 

The  boy's  eyes  were  fixed  straight  ahead.  A 
squirrel  whisked  his  tail  alluringly  from  the  bushes 
at  the  left,  and  a  robin  twittered  from  a  tree 
branch  on  the  right.  But  the  boy  neither  saw  nor 


8  DAWN 

heard  —  and  when  before  had  Keith  Burton  failed 
to  respond  to  a  furred  or  feathered  challenge  like 
that? 

To-day  there  was  an  air  of  dogged  determination 
about  even  the  way  he  set  one  foot  before  the  other. 
He  had  the  air  of  one  who  sees  his  goal  ahead  and 
cannot  reach  it  soon  enough.  Yet  when  Keith  ar- 
rived at  the  sagging,  open  gate  before  the  Harring- 
ton cottage,  he  stopped  short  as  if  the  gate  were 
closed;  and  his  next  steps  were  slow  and  hesitant. 
Walking  on  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  path  he 
made  no  sound  as  he  approached  the  stoop,  on 
which  sat  an  old  man. 

At  the  steps,  as  at  the  gate,  Keith  stopped  and 
waited,  his  gaze  on  the  motionless  figure  in  the 
rocking-chair.  The  old  man  sat  with  hands  folded 
on  his  cane-top,  his  eyes  apparently  looking  straight 
ahead. 

Slowly  the  boy  lifted  his  right  arm  and  waved  it 
soundlessly.  He  lifted  his  left  —  but  there  was  no 
waving  flourish.  Instead  it  fell  impotently  almost 
before  it  was  lifted.  On  the  stoop  the  old  man  still 
sat  motionless,  his  eyes  still  gazing  straight  ahead. 

Again  the  boy  hesitated;  then,  with  an  elabo- 
rately careless  air,  he  shuffled  his  feet  on  the  gravel 
walk  and  called  cheerfully: 

"Hullo,  Uncle  Joe." 

"Hullo!  Oh,  hullo!  It's  Keith  Burton,  ain't  it?" 

The  old  head  turned  with  the  vague  indecision  of 
the  newly  blind,  and  a  trembling  hand  thrust  itself 
aimlessly  forward.   "It  is  Keith  —  ain't  it?" 


THE  GREAT  TERROR  9 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I'm  Keith." 

The  boy,  with  a  quick  look  about  him,  awk- 
wardly shook  the  fluttering  fingers  —  Keith  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  shaking  hands  with  people,  least 
of  all  with  Uncle  Joe  Harrington.  He  sat  down 
then  on  the  step  at  the  old  man's  feet. 

"What  did  ye  bring  ter-day,  my  boy?"  asked 
the  man  eagerly;  then  with  a  quick  change  of 
manner,  he  sighed,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  fix  it, 
anyhow." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  you  don't  have  to.  I  did  n't  bring 
anything  to  be  mended  to-day."  Unconsciously 
Keith  had  raised  his  voice.  He  was  speaking 
loudly,  and  very  politely. 

The  old  man  fell  back  in  his  chair.  He  looked 
relieved,  yet  disappointed. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,  then.  I'm  glad.  That 
is,  of  course,  if  I  could  have  fixed  it  for  you — " 
His  sentence  remained  unfinished.  A  profound 
gloom  settled  over  his  countenance. 

"But  I  did  n't  bring  anything  for  you  to  fix," 
reiterated  the  boy,  in  a  yet  louder  tone. 

"There,  there,  my  boy,  you  don't  have  to  shout." 
The  old  man  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat.  "I  ain't 
deaf.  I  'm  only  —  I  suppose  you  know,  Keith, 
what's  come  to  me  in  my  old  age." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  — I  do."  The  boy  hitched  a  little 
nearer  to  the  two  ill-shod  feet  on  the  floor  near  him. 
"And  —  and  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Yours  hurt  a 
lot,  didn't  they?  —  I  mean,  your  eyes;  they  — 
they    ached,   did  n't   they,   before   they  —  they 


10  DAWN 

got  —  blind?"  He  spoke  eagerly,  almost  hope- 
fully. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"No,  not  much.  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  be  thankful 
I  was  spared  that." 

The  boy  wet  his  dry  lips  and  swallowed. 

"But,  Uncle  Joe,  'most  always,  I  guess,  when  — 
when  folks  are  going  to  be  blind,  they  —  they  do 
ache,  don't  they?" 

Again  the  old  man  stirred  restlessly. 

"I  don't  know.   I  only  know  about  —  myself." 

"But  —  well,  anyhow,  it  never  comes  till  you're 
old  —  real  old,  does  it?"  Keith's  voice  vibrated 
with  confidence  this  time. 

"Old?  I  ain't  so  very  old.  I'm  only  seventy- 
five,"  bridled  Harrington  resentfully.  "Besides 
anyhow,  the  doctor  said  age  did  n't  have  nothin' 
ter  do  with  this  kind  of  blindness.  It  comes  ter 
young  folks,  real  young  folks,  sometimes." 

"Oh-h!"  The  boy  wet  his  lips  and  swallowed 
again  a  bit  convulsively.  With  eyes  fearful  and 
questioning  he  searched  the  old  man's  face.  Twice 
he  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  speak;  but  each  time 
he  closed  it  again  with  the  words  left  unsaid.  Then, 
with  a  breathless  rush,  very  much  like  desperation, 
he  burst  out: 

"But  it's  always  an  awful  long  time  comin', 
is  n't  it?  Blindness  is.  It's  years  and  years  before 
it  really  gets  here,  is  n't  it?" 

"Hm-m;  well,  I  can't  say.  I  can  only  speak  for 
myself,  Keith." 


THE  GREAT  TERROR  11 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know,  sir;  and  that 's  what  I  wanted 
to  ask  —  about  you,"  plunged  on  Keith  fever- 
ishly. "  When  did  you  notice  it  first,  and  what  was 
it?" 

The  old  man  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  tell,  exactly. 
'T  was  quite  a  spell  coram'  on  —  I  know  that; 
and  't  was  n't  much  of  anything  at  first.  'T  was 
just  that  I  could  n't  see  ter  read  clear  an'  distinct. 
It  was  all  sort  of  blurred." 

"Kind  of  run  together?"  Just  above  his  breath 
Keith  asked  the  question. 

"Yes,  that's  it  exactly.  An'  I  thought  somethin* 
ailed  my  glasses,  an'  so  I  got  some  new  ones.  An* 
I  thought  at  first  maybe  it  helped.  But  it  did  n't. 
Then  it  got  so  that  't  wa'n't  only  the  printin'  ter 
books  an'  papers  that  was  blurred,  but  ev'rything 
a  little  ways  off  was  in  a  fog,  like,  an'  I  could  n't 
see  anything  real  clear  an'  distinct." 

"  Oh,  but  things  —  other  things  —  don't  look  a 
mite  foggy  to  me,"  cried  the  boy. 

"'Course  they  don't!  Why  should  they?  They 
did  n't  to  me  —  once,"  retorted  the  man  impa- 
tiently. "But  now — "  Again  he  left  a  sentence 
unfinished. 

"But  how  soon  did  —  did  you  get  —  all  blind, 
after  that?"  stammered  the  boy,  breaking  the  long, 
uncomfortable  silence  that  had  followed  the  old 
man's  unfinished  sentence. 

"Oh,  five  or  six  months  —  maybe  more.  I  don't 
know  exactly.   I  know  it  came,  that's  all.   I  guess 


n  DAWN 

if  't  was  you  it  would  n't  make  no  difference  how 
it  came,  if  it  came,  boy." 

"N-no,  of  course  not,"  chattered  Keith,  spring- 
ing suddenly  to  his  feet.  "But  I  guess  it  is  n't  com- 
ing to  me  —  of  course  't  is  n't  coming  to  me !  Well, 
good-bye,  Uncle  Joe,  I  got  to  go  now.   Good-bye!" 

He  spoke  fearlessly,  blithely,  and  his  chin  was 
at  a  confident  tilt.  He  even  whistled  as  he  walked 
down  the  hill.  But  in  his  heart  —  in  his  heart 
Keith  knew  that  beside  him  that  very  minute 
stalked  that  shadowy,  intangible  creature  that  had 
dogged  his  footsteps  ever  since  his  fourteenth 
birthday-gift  from  his  father;  and  he  knew  it  now 
by  name  —  The  Great  Terror. 


CHAPTER  II 
DAD 

KEITH'S  chin  was  still  high  and  his  gaze  still 
straight  ahead  when  he  reached  the  foot  of 
Harrington  Hill.  Perhaps  that  explained  why  he 
did  not  see  the  two  young  misses  on  the  fence  by 
the  side  of  the  road  until  a  derisively  gleeful  shout 
called  his  attention  to  their  presence. 

"Well,  Keith  Burton,  I  should  like  to  know  if 
you're  blind !"  challenged  a  merry  voice. 

The  boy  turned  with  a  start  so  violent  that  the 
girls  giggled  again  gleefully.  "Dear,  dear,  did  we 
scare  him?  We're  so  sorry!" 

The  boy  flushed  painfully.  Keith  did  not  like 
girls  —  that  is,  he  said  he  did  not  like  them.  They 
made  him  conscious  of  his  hands  and  feet,  and 
stiffened  his  tongue  so  that  it  would  not  obey  his 
will.  The  prettier  the  girls  were,  the  more  acute 
was  his  discomfiture.  Particularly,  therefore,  did  he 
dislike  these  two  girls  —  they  were  the  prettiest  of 
the  lot.  They  were  Mazie  Sanborn  and  her  friend 
Dorothy  Parkman. 

Mazie  was  the  daughter  of  the  town's  richest 
manufacturer,  and  Dorothy  was  her  cousin  from 
Chicago,  who  made  such  long  visits  to  her  Eastern 
relatives  that  it  seemed  sometimes  almost  as  if  she 
were  as  much  of  a  Hinsdale  girl  as  was  Mazie  her- 


14  DAWN 

self.  To-day  Mazie's  blue  eyes  and  Dorothy's 
brown  ones  were  full  of  mischief. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  say  something?  Why 
don't  you  apologize?"  demanded  Mazie. 

"'Pol  —  pologize?  What  for?"  In  his  embar- 
rassed misery  Keith  resorted  to  bravado  in  voice 
and  manner. 

"Why,  for  passing  us  by  in  that  impertinent 
fashion,"  returned  Mazie  loftily.  "Do  you  think 
that  is  the  way  ladies  should  be  treated?"  (Mazie 
was  thirteen  and  Dorothy  fourteen.)    "The  idea!" 

For  a  minute  Keith  stared  helplessly,  shifting 
from  one  foot  to  the  other.  Then,  with  an  inarticu- 
late grunt,  he  turned  away. 

*  But  Mazie  was  not  to  be  so  easily  thwarted. 
With  a  mere  flit  of  her  hand  she  tossed  aside  a 
score  of  years,  and  became  instantly  nothing  more 
than  a  wheedling  little  girl  coaxing  a  playmate. 

"Aw,  Keithie,  don't  get  mad!  I  was  only  fool- 
ing. Say,  tell  me,  have  you  been  up  to  Uncle  Joe 
Harrington's?" 

Because  Mazie  had  caught  his  arm  and  now  held 
it  tightly,  the  boy  perforce  came  to  a  stop. 

"Well,  what  if  I  have?"  he  resorted  to  bravado 
again. 

"And  is  he  blind,  honestly?"  Mazie's  voice  be- 
came hushed  and  awestruck. 

"Uh-huh."  The  boy  nodded  his  head  with  elab- 
orate unconcern,  but  he  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"And  he  can't  see  a  thing  —  not  a  thing?" 
breathed  Mazie. 


DAD  15 

'"Course  he  can't,  if  he's  blind!"  Keith  showed 
irritation  now,  and  pulled  not  too  gently  at  the 
arm  still  held  in  Mazie's  firm  little  fingers. 

"Blind!  Ugghh!"  interposed  Miss  Dorothy, 
shuddering  visibly.  "Oh,  how  can  you  bear  to  look 
at  him,  Keith  Burton?   I  could  n't!" 

A  sudden  wave  of  red  surged  over  the  boy's  face. 
The  next  instant  it  had  receded,  leaving  only  a 
white,  strained  terror. 

"Well,  he  ain't  to  blame  for  it,  if  he  is  blind,  is 
he?"  chattered  the  boy,  a  bit  incoherently.  "If 
you're  blind  you're  blind,  and  you  can't  help 
yourself."  And  with  a  jerk  he  freed  himself  from 
Mazie's  grasp  and  hurried  down  the  road  toward 
home. 

But  when  he  reached  the  bend  of  the  road  he 
turned  and  looked  back.  The  two  girls  had  re- 
turned to  their  perch  on  the  fence,  and  were  deeply 
absorbed  in  something  one  of  them  held  in  her 
hand. 

"And  she  said  she  could  n't  bear  —  to  look  at 
'em  —  if  they  were  blind,"  he  whispered.  Then, 
wheeling  about,  he  ran  down  the  road  as  fast  as  he 
could.  Nor  did  he  stop  till  he  had  entered  his  own 
gate. 

"Well,  Keith  Burton,  I  should  like  to  know 
where  you've  been,"  cried  the  irate  voice  of  Susan 
Betts  from  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  just  walking.  Why?" 

"Because  I've  been  huntin'  and  huntin'  for 
you. 


16  DAWN 

But,  oh,  dear  me, 

You're  worse 'n  a  flea, 

So  what's  the  use  of  talkin'? 

You  always  say, 

As  you  did  to-day, 

I've  just  been  out  a-walkin'!" 

"But  what  did  you  want  me  for?" 

"I  did  n't  want  you.  Your  pa  wanted  you. 
But,  then,  for  that  matter,  he's  always  wantin' 
you.  Any  time,  if  you  look  at  him  real  good  an' 
hard  enough  to  get  his  attention,  he'll  stare  a 
minute,  an'  then  say:  'Where's  Keith?'  An'  when 
he  gets  to  the  other  shore,  I  suppose  he  '11  do  it  all 
the  more." 

"Oh,  no,  he  won't  —  not  if  it's  talking  poetry. 
Father  never  talks  poetry.  What  makes  you  talk 
it  so  much,  Susan?  Nobody  else  does." 

Susan  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"Lan'  sakes,  child,  I  don't  know,  only  I  jest 
can't  help  it.  Why,  everything  inside  of  me  jest 
swings  along  to  a  regular  tune  —  kind  of  keeps 
time,  like.  It's  always  been  so.  Why,  Keithie, 
boy,  it's  been  my  joy —  There,  you  see  —  jest 
like  that!  I  did  n't  know  that  was  comin'.  It 
jest  —  jest  came.  That 's  all.  I  can  make  a  rhyme 
'most  any  time.  Oh,  of  course,  most  generally, 
when  I  write  real  poems,  I  have  to  sit  down  with 
a  pencil  an'  paper,  an'  write  'em  out.  It's  only  the 
spontaneous  combustion  kind  that  comes  all  in  a 
minute,  without  predisposed  thinkin'.  Now,  run 
along  to  your  pa,  child.  He  wants  you.  He's  been 
frettin'  the  last  hour  for  you,  jest  because  he  did  n't 


DAD  17 

know  exactly  where  you  was.  Goodness  me!  I 
only  hope  I  '11  never  have  to  live  with  him  if  any- 
thing happens  to  you." 

The  boy  had  crossed  the  room;  but  with  his 
hand  on  the  door  knob  he  turned  sharply. 

"W-what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Susan  Betts  gave  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Lan'  sakes,  child,  how  you  do  hold  a  body  up! 
I  meant  what  I  said  —  that  I  did  n't  want  the  job 
of  livin'  with  your  pa  if  anything  happened  to  you. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  thinks  you're  the 
very  axle  for  the  earth  to  whirl  'round  on.  But, 
there,  I  don't  know  as  I  wonder  —  jest  you  left, 
so!" 

j  The  boy  abandoned  his  position  at  the  door,  and 
came  close  to  Susan  Betts's  side. 

"That's  what  I've  always  wanted  to  know. 
Other  boys  have  brothers  and  sisters  and  —  a 
mother.  But  I  can't  ever  remember  anybody  only 
dad.   Was  n't  there  ever  any  one  else?" 

Susan  Betts  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"There  were  two  brothers,  but  they  died  before 
you  was  born.   Then  there  was  —  your  mother." 

"But  I  never  —  knew  her?" 

"No,  child.  When  they  opened  the  door  of 
Heaven  to  let  you  out  she  slipped  in,  poor  lamb. 
An'  then  you  was  all  your  father  had  left.  So  of 
course  he  dotes  on  you.  Goodness  me,  there  ain't 
no  end  to  the  fine  things  he 's  goin'  ter  have  you  be 
when  you  grow  up." 

"Yes,  I  know."  The  boy  caught  his  breath  con- 


18  DAWN 

vulsively  and  turned  away.  "I  guess  I'll  go  — to 
dad." 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  upstairs  was  the  studio. 
Dad  would  probably  be  there.  Keith  knew  that. 
Dad  was  always  there,  when  he  was  n't  sleeping 
or  eating,  or  out  tramping  through  the  woods. 
He  would  be  sitting  before  the  easel  now  "putter- 
ing" over  a  picture,  as  Susan  called  it.  Susan 
said  he  was  a  very  "insufficient,  uncapacious" 
man  —  but  that  was  when  she  was  angry  or  tried 
with  him.  She  never  let  any  one  else  say  such 
things  about  him. 

Still,  dad  was  very  different  from  other  dads. 
Keith  had  to  acknowledge  that  —  to  himself. 
Other  boys'  dads  had  offices  and  stores  and  shops 
and  factories  where  they  worked,  or  else  they  were 
doctors  or  ministers;  and  there  was  always  money 
to  get  things  with  —  things  that  boys  needed; 
shoes  and  stockings  and  new  clothes,  and  candy 
and  baseball  bats  and  kites  and  jack-knives. 

Dad  did  n't  have  anything  but  a  studio,  and 
there  never  seemed  to  be  much  money.  What 
there  was,  was  an  "annual,"  Susan  said,  whatever 
that  was.  Anyway,  whatever  it  was,  it  was  too 
small,  and  not  nearly  large  enough  to  cover  ex- 
penses. Susan  had  an  awful  time  to  get  enough  to 
buy  their  food  with  sometimes.  She  was  always 
telling  dad  that  she'd  got  to  have  a  little  to  buy 
eggs  or  butter  or  meat  with. 

And  there  were  her  wages  —  dad  was  always 
behind  on  those.    And  when  the  bills  came  in  at 


DAD  19 

the  first  of  the  month,  it  was  always  awful  then: 
dad  worried  and  frowning  and  unhappy  and 
apologetic  and  explaining;  Susan  cross  and  half- 
crying.  Strange  men,  not  overpleasant-looking, 
ringing  the  doorbell  peremptorily.  And  never  a 
place  at  all  where  a  boy  might  feel  comfortable  to 
stay.  Dad  was  always  talking  then,  especially, 
how  he  was  sure  he  was  going  to  sell  this  picture. 
But  he  never  sold  it.  At  least,  Keith  never  knew 
him  to.  And  after  a  while  he  would  begin  a  new 
picture,  and  be  sure  he  was  going  to  sell  that. 

But  not  only  was  dad  different  from  other  boys' 
dads,  but  the  house  was  different.  First  it  was  very 
old,  and  full  of  very  old  furniture  and  dishes. 
Then  blinds  and  windows  and  locks  and  doors  were 
always  getting  out  of  order;  and  they  were  apt  to 
remain  so,  for  there  was  never  any  money  to  fix 
things  with.  There  was  also  a  mortgage  on  the 
house.  That  is,  Susan  said  there  was;  and  by  the 
way  she  said  it,  it  would  seem  to  be  something  not 
at  all  attractive  or  desirable.  Just  what  a  mortgage 
was,  Keith  did  not  exactly  understand;  but,  for 
that  matter,  quite  probably  Susan  herself  did  not. 
Susan  always  liked  to  use  big  words,  and  some  of 
them  she  did  not  always  know  the  meaning  of, 
dad  said. 

To-day,  in  the  hallway,  Keith  stood  a  hesitant 
minute  before  his  father's  door.  Then  slowly  he 
pushed  it  open. 

"Did  you  want  me,  dad?"  he  asked. 

The  man  at  the  easel  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was 


20  DAWN 

a  tall,  slender  man,  with  finely  cut  features  and  a 
pointed,  blond  beard.  Susan  had  once  described 
him  as  "an  awfully  nice  man  to  take  care  of,  but 
not  worth  a  cent  when  it  comes  to  takin'  care  of 
you."  Yet  there  was  every  evidence  of  loving 
protection  in  the  arm  he  threw  around  his  boy 
just  now. 

"Want  you?  I  always  want  you!"  he  cried  af- 
fectionately. "Look!  Do  you  remember  that  moss 
we  brought  home  yesterday?  Well,  I've  got  its 
twin  now."  Triumphantly  he  pointed  to  the  lower 
left-hand  corner  of  the  picture  on  the  easel,  where 
was  a  carefully  blended  mass  of  greens  and  browns. 

"Oh,  yes,  why,  so  't  is."  (Keith  had  long  since 
learned  to  see  in  his  father's  pictures  what  his 
father  saw.)  "Say,  dad,  I  wish't  you'd  tell  me 
about  —  my  little  brothers.   Won't  you,  please?" 

"And,  Keith, look  —  do  you  recognize  that  little 
path?  It's  the  one  we  saw  yesterday.  I'm  going 
to  call  this  picture  'The  Woodland  Path'  —  and  I 
think  it's  going  to  be  about  the  very  best  thing 
I  ever  did." 

Keith  was  not  surprised  that  his  question  had 
been  turned  aside:  questions  that  his  father  did 
not  like  to  answer  were  always  turned  aside. 
Usually  Keith  submitted  with  what  grace  he  could 
muster;  but  to-day  he  was  in  a  persistent  mood 
that  would  not  be  denied. 

"Dad,  why  won't  you  tell  me  about  my  brothers? 
Please,  what  were  their  names,  and  how  old  were 
they,  and  why  did  they  die?" 


p 
o 


DAD  21 

"God  knows  why  they  died  — I  don't!"  The 
man's  arm  about  the  boy's  shoulder  tightened 
convulsively. 

"But  how  old  were  they?" 

"Ned  was  seven  and  Jerry  was  four,  and  they 
were  the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  —  But  why  do 
you  make  me  tell  you?  Is  n't  it  enough,  Keith, 
that  they  went,  one  after  the  other,  not  two  days 
apart?  And  then  the  sun  went  out  and  left  the 
world  gray  and  cold  and  cheerless,  for  the  next 
day  —  your  mother  went." 

"And  how  about  me,  dad?" 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  have  heard.  Still  with 
his  arm  about  the  boy's  shoulder,  he  had  dropped 
back  into  the  seat  before  the  easel.  His  eyes  now 
were  somberly  fixed  out  the  window. 

"Was  n't  I  —  anywhere,  dad?" 

With  a  start  the  man  turned.  His  arm  tightened 
again.    His  eyes  grew  moist  and  very  tender. 

"Anywhere?  You're  everywhere  now,  my  boy. 
I'm  afraid,  at  the  first,  the  very  first,  I  did  n't  like 
to  see  you  very  well,  perhaps  because  you  were  all 
there  was  left.  Then,  little  by  little,  I  found  you 
were  looking  at  me  with  your  mother's  eyes,  and 
touching  me  with  the  fingers  of  Ned  and  Jerry. 
And  now  —  why,  boy,  you  're  everything.  You  're 
Ned  and  Jerry  and  your  mother  all  in  one,  my  boy, 
my  boy!" 

Keith  stirred  restlessly.  A  horrible  tightness 
came  to  his  throat,  yet  there  was  a  big  lump  that 
must  be  swallowed. 


22  DAWN 

"Er —  that  —  that  Woodland  Path  picture  is 
going  to  be  great,  dad,  great!"  he  said  then,  in  a 
very  loud,  though  slightly  husky,  voice.  "Come 
on,  let's—" 

From  the  hall  Susan's  voice  interrupted,  chant- 
ing in  a  high-pitched  singsong: 

"Dinner's  ready,  dinner's  ready, 
Hurry  up,  or  you'll  be  late, 
Then  you  '11  sure  be  cross  and  heady 
If  there's  nothin'  left  to  ate." 

Keith  gave  a  relieved  whoop  and  bounded  to- 
ward the  door.  Never  had  Susan's  "dinner-bell" 
been  a  more  welcome  sound.  Surely,  at  dinner,  his 
throat  would  have  to  loosen  up,  and  that  lump 
could  then  be  swallowed. 

More  slowly  Keith's  father  rose  from  his  chair. 

"How  impossible  Susan  is,"  he  sighed.  "I  be- 
lieve she  grows  worse  every  day.  Still  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  be  thankful  she 's  good-natured  — 
which  that  absurd  doggerel  of  hers  proves  that  she 
is.  However,  I  should  like  to  put  a  stop  to  it. 
I  declare,  I  believe  I  will  put  a  stop  to  it,  too! 
I  'm  going  to  insist  on  her  announcing  her  meals  in 
a  proper  manner.  Oh,  Susan,"  he  began  resolutely, 
as  he  flung  open  the  dining-room  door. 

"Well,  sir?"  Susan  stood  at  attention,  her  arms 
akimbo. 

"Susan,  I  —  I  insist  —  that  is,  I  wish  — " 

"You  was  sayin' — "  she  reminded  him  coldly, 
as  he  came  to  a  helpless  pause. 

"Yes.     That  is,   I  was  saying — "     His   eyes 


DAD  23 

wavered  and  fell  to  the  table.  "Oh,  hash  —  red- 
flannel  hash!  That's  fine,  Susan!" 

But  Susan  was  not  to  be  cajoled.  Her  eyes  still 
regarded  him  coldly. 

"Yes,  sir,  hash.  We  most  generally  does  have 
beet  hash  after  b'iled  dinner,  sir.  You  was  sayin'?" 

"Nothing,  Susan,  nothing.  I  —  I've  changed 
my  mind,"  murmured  the  man  hastily,  pulling 
out  his  chair.  "Well,  Keith,  will  you  have  some 
of  Susan's  nice  hash?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Keith. 

Susan  said  nothing.  But  was  there  a  quiet  smile 
on  her  lips  as  she  left  the  room?  If  so,  neither  the 
man  nor  the  boy  seemed  to  notice  it. 

As  for  the  very  obvious  change  of  attitude  on  the 
part  of  the  man  —  Keith  had  witnessed  a  like  phe- 
nomenon altogether  too  often  to  give  it  a  second 
thought.  And  as  for  the  doggerel  that  had  brought 
about  the  situation  —  that,  also,  was  too  familiar 
to  cause  comment. 

It  had  been  years  since  Susan  first  called  them  to 
dinner  with  her  "poem";  but  Keith  could  remem- 
ber just  how  pleased  she  had  been,  and  how  gayly 
she  had  repeated  it  over  and  over,  so  as  not  to 
forget  it. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  know  that  'ate'  ain't  good  eti- 
quette in  that  place,"  she  had  admitted  at  the  time. 
"  It  should  be '  eat.'  But '  eat '  don't  rhyme,  an'  'ate ' 
does.  So  I'm  goin'  to  use  it.  An'  I  can,  anyhow. 
It's  poem  license;  an'  that  '11  let  you  do  anything." 

Since  then  she  had  used  the  verse  for  every  meal 


24  DAWN 

—  except  when  she  was  out  of  temper  —  and  by 
substituting  breakfast  or  supper  for  dinner,  she  had 
a  call  that  was  conveniently  universal. 

The  fact  that  she  used  it  only  when  she  was  good- 
natured  constituted  an  unfailing  barometer  of  the 
atmospheric  condition  of  the  kitchen,  and  was 
really,  in  a  way,  no  small  convenience  —  especially 
for  little  boys  in  quest  of  cookies  or  bread-and- 
jam.  As  for  the  master  of  the  house  —  this  was  not 
the  first  time  he  had  threatened  an  energetic  war- 
fare against  that  "absurd  doggerel"  (which  he  had 
cordially  abhorred  from  the  very  first);  neither 
would  it  probably  be  the  last  time  that  Susan's 
calm  "Well,  sir?"  should  send  him  into  ignomin- 
ious defeat  before  the  battle  was  even  begun.  And, 
really,  after  all  was  said  and  done,  there  was  still 
that  one  unfailing  refuge  for  his  discomforted  recol- 
lection: he  could  be  thankful,  when  he  heard  it, 
that  she  was  good-natured;  and  with  Susan  that 
was  no  small  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  as  everybody 
knew  —  who  knew  Susan. 

To-day,  therefore,  the  defeat  was  not  so  bitter  as 
to  take  all  the  sweetness  out  of  the  "red-flannel" 
hash,  and  the  frown  on  Daniel  Burton's  face  was 
quite  gone  when  Susan  brought  in  the  dessert.  Nor 
did  it  return  that  night,  even  when  Susan's  shrill 
voice  caroled  through  the  hall: 

"Supper's  ready,  supper's  ready, 
Hurry  up,  or  you'll  be  late, 
Then  you'll  sure  be  cross  and  heady 
If  there's  nothin'  left  to  ate." 


CHAPTER  III 

« 

FOR  JERRY  AND  NED 

IT  was  Susan  Betts  who  discovered  that  Keith 
was  not  reading  so  much  that  summer. 

"An'  him  with  his  nose  always  in  a  book  before," 
as  she  said  one  day  to  Mrs.  McGuire.  "An'  he 
don't  act  natural,  somehow,  neither,  ter  my  way  of 
thinkin'.  Have  you  noticed  anything?" 

"Why,  no,  I  don't  know  as  I  have,"  answered 
Mrs.  McGuire  from  the  other  side  of  the  fence, 
"except  that  he's  always  traipsin'  off  to  the  woods 
with  his  father.  But  then,  he's  always  done  that, 
more  or  less." 

"Indeed  he  has!  But  always  before  he's  lugged 
along  a  book,  sometimes  two;  an'  now  —  why  he 
hain't  even  read  the  book  his  father  give  him  on 
his  birthday.  I  know,  'cause  I  asked  him  one  day 
what  't  was  about,  an'  he  said  he  did  n't  know;  he 
had  n't  read  it." 

"Deary  me,  Susan!  Well,  what  if  he  hadn't? 
I  should  n't  fret  about  that.  My  gracious,  Susan, 
if  you  had  four  children  same  as  I  have,  instead  of 
one,  I  guess  you  would  n't  do  no  worryin'  jest  be- 
cause a  boy  did  n't  read  a  book.  Though,  as  for  my 
John,  he  — " 

Susan  lifted  her  chin. 

"I  wasn't  talkin'  about  your  children,  Mis' 
McGuire,"  she  interrupted.    "An'  I  reckon  no- 


26  DAWN 

body  'd  do  no  worryin'  if  they  did  n't  read.  But 
Master  Keith  is  a  different  supposition  entirely. 
He's  very  intelligible,  Master  Keith  is,  and  so  is 
his  father  before  him.  Books  is  food  to  them  —  real 
food.  Hain't  you  ever  heard  of  folks  devourin' 
books?  Well,  they  do  it.  Of  course  I  don't  mean 
literaryly,  but  metaphysically." 

"Oh,  land  o'  love,  Susan  Betts!"  cried  Mrs. 
McGuire,  throwing  up  both  hands  and  turning 
away  scornfully.  "Of  course,  when  you  get  to 
talkin'  like  that,  nobody  can  say  anything  to  you! 
However  in  the  world  that  poor  Mr.  Burton  puts 
up  with  you,  I  don't  see.  I  would  n't  —  not  a  day 
—  not  a  single  day ! "  And  by  way  of  emphasis  she 
entered  her  house  and  shut  the  door  with  a  slam. 

Susan  Betts,  left  alone,  shrugged  her  shoulders 
disdainfully. 

"Well,  'nobody  asked  you,  sir,  she  said,'"  she 
quoted,  under  her  breath,  and  slammed  her  door, 
also,  by  way  of  emphasis. 

Yet  both  Susan  and  Mrs.  McGuire  knew  very 
well  that  the  next  day  would  find  them  again  in 
the  usual  friendly  intercourse  over  the  back-yard 
fence. 

Susan  Betts  was  a  neighbor's  daughter.  She  had 
lived  all  her  life  in  the  town,  and  she  knew  every- 
body. Just  because  she  happened  to  work  in  Daniel 
Burton's  kitchen  was  no  reason,  to  her  mind,  why 
she  should  not  be  allowed  to  express  her  opinion 
freely  on  all  occasions,  and  on  all  subjects,  and  to 
all  persons.    Such  being  her  conviction  she  con- 


FOR  JERRY  AND  NED  27 

ducted  herself  accordingly.  And  Susan  always 
lived  up  to  her  convictions. 

In  the  kitchen  to-day  she  found  Keith. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Susan,  I  was  looking  for  you.  Dad 
wants  you." 

"What  for?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  guess  it's  because  he  wants 
to  have  something  besides  beans  and  codfish  and 
fish-hash  to  eat.  Anyhow,  he  said  he  was  going  to 
speak  to  you  about  it." 

Susan  stiffened  into  inexorable  sternness. 

"So  he's  goin'  ter  speak  ter  me,  is  he?  Well, 
't  will  be  mighty  little  good  that'll  do,  as  he  ought 
to  know  very  well.  Beefsteaks  an'  roast  fowls  cost 
money.   Has  he  got  the  money  for  me?" 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  her  question, 
she  strode  through  the  door  leading  to  the  dining- 
room  and  shut  it  crisply  behind  her. 

The  boy  did  not  follow  her.  Alone,  in  the  kitchen 
he  drummed  idly  on  the  window-pane,  watching 
the  first  few  drops  of  a  shower  that  had  been  dark- 
ening the  sky  for  an  hour  past. 

After  a  minute  he  turned  slowly  and  gazed  with 
listless  eyes  about  the  kitchen.  On  the  table  lay  a 
folded  newspaper.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
crossed  the  room  toward  it.  He  had  the  air  of  one 
impelled  by  some  inner  force  against  his  will. 

He  picked  the  paper  up,  but  did  not  at  once  look 
at  it.  In  fact,  he  looked  anywhere  but  at  it.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  jerk,  he  faced  it.  Shivering  a  little 
he  held  it  nearer,  then  farther  away,  then  nearer 


28  DAWN 

again.  Then,  with  an  inarticulate  little  cry  he 
dropped  the  paper  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

No  one  knew  better  than  Keith  himself  that  he 
was  not  reading  much  this  summer.  Not  that  he 
put  it  into  words,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  so  long 
as  he  was  not  seeing  how  blurred  the  printed  words 
were,  he  would  not  be  sure  that  they  were  blurred. 
Yet  he  knew  that  always,  whenever  he  saw  a  book 
or  paper,  his  fingers  fairly  tingled  to  pick  it  up  — 
and  make  sure.  Most  of  the  time,  however,  Keith 
tried  not  to  notice  the  books  and  papers.  Syste- 
matically he  tried  to  forget  that  there  were  books 
and  papers  —  and  he  tried  to  forget  the  Great 
Terror. 

Sometimes  he  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  do- 
ing this.  He  contrived  to  keep  himself  very  busy 
that  summer.  Almost  every  day,  when  it  did  not 
rain,  he  was  off  for  a  long  walk  with  his  father  in 
the  woods.  His  father  liked  to  walk  in  the  woods. 
Keith  never  had  to  urge  him  to  do  that.  And  what 
good  times  they  had !  —  except  that  Keith  did  wish 
that  his  father  would  not  talk  quite  so  much  about 
what  great  things  he,  Keith,  was  going  to  do  when 
he  should  have  become  a  man  —  and  a  great  artist. 

One  day  he  ventured  to  remonstrate. 

"  But,  dad,  maybe  I  —  I  shan't  be  a  great  artist 
at  all.  Maybe  I  shan't  be  even  a  little  one.  Maybe 
I  shall  be  just  a  —  a  man." 

Keith  never  forgot  his  father's  answer  nor  his 
father's  anguished  face  as  he  made  that  answer. 

"Keith,  I  don't  ever  want  you  to  let  me  hear  you 


FOR  JERRY  AND  NED  29 

say  that  again.  I  want  you  to  know  that  you're 
going  to  succeed.  And  you  will  succeed.  God  will 
not  be  so  cruel  as  to  deny  me  that.  /  have  failed. 
You  need  n't  shake  your  head,  boy,  and  say  '  Oh, 
dad!'  like  that.  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I'm 
talking  about.  /  have  failed  —  though  it  is  not 
often  that  I'll  admit  it,  even  to  myself.  But  when 
I  heard  you  say  to-day  — 

"Keith,  listen  to  me.  You've  got  to  succeed. 
You've  got  to  succeed  not  only  for  yourself,  but 
for  Jerry  and  Ned,  and  for  —  me.  All  my  hopes 
for  Jerry  and  Ned  and  for  —  myself  are  in  you, 
boy.  That's  why,  in  all  our  walks  together,  and  at 
home  in  the  studio,  I  'm  trying  to  teach  you  some- 
thing that  you  will  want  to  know  by  and  by." 

Keith  never  remonstrated  with  his  father  after 
that.  He  felt  worse  than  ever  now  when  his  father 
talked  of  what  great  things  he  was  going  to  do;  but 
he  knew  that  remonstrances  would  do  no  good,  but 
rather  harm ;  and  he  did  not  want  to  hear  his  father 
talk  again  as  he  had  talked  that  day,  about  Jerry 
and  Ned  and  himself.  As  if  it  were  not  bad  enough, 
under  the  best  of  conditions,  to  have  to  be  great 
and  famous  for  one's  two  dead  brothers  and  one's 
father;  while  if  one  were  blind  — 

But  Keith  refused  to  think  of  that.  He  tried  very 
hard,  also,  to  absorb  everything  that  his  father  en- 
deavored to  teach  him.  He  listened  and  watched 
and  said  "yes,  sir,"  and  he  did  his  best  to  make  the 
chalks  and  charcoal  that  were  put  into  his  hands 
follow  the  copy  set  for  him. 


30  DAWN 

To  be  sure,  in  this  last  undertaking,  his  efforts 
were  not  always  successful.  The  lines  wavered  and 
blurred  and  were  far  from  clear.  Still,  they  were 
not  half  so  bad  as  the  print  in  books;  and  if  it  should 
not  get  any  worse  —  Besides,  had  he  not  always 
loved  to  draw  cats  and  dogs  and  faces  ever  since  he 
could  hold  a  pencil? 

And  so,  with  some  measure  of  hope  as  to  the  re- 
sults, he  was  setting  himself  to  be  that  great  and 
famous  artist  that  his  father  said  he  must  be. 

But  it  was  not  all  work  for  Keith  these  summer 
days.  There  were  games  and  picnics  and  berry  ex- 
peditions with  the  boys  and  girls,  all  of  which  he 
hailed  with  delight  —  one  did  not  have  to  read,  or 
even  study  wavering  lines  and  figures,  on  picnics  or 
berrying  expeditions !  And  that  was  a  relief.  To  be 
sure,  there  was  nearly  always  Mazie,  and  if  there 
was  Mazie,  there  was  bound  to  be  Dorothy.  And 
Dorothy  had  said  —  Some  way  he  could  never 
see  Dorothy  without  remembering  what  she  did 
say  on  that  day  he  had  come  home  from  Uncle  Joe 
Harrington's. 

Not  that  he  exactly  blamed  her,  either.  For  was 
not  he  himself  acting  as  if  he  felt  the  same  way  and 
did  not  like  to  look  at  blind  persons?  Else  why  did 
he  so  persistently  keep  away  from  Uncle  Joe  now? 
Not  once,  since  that  first  day,  had  he  been  up  to 
see  the  poor  old  blind  man.  And  before  —  why, 
before  he  used  to  go  several  times  a  week. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SCHOOL 

AND  so  the  summer  passed,  and  September 
came.  And  September  brought  a  new  prob- 
lem —  school.  And  school  meant  books. 

Two  days  before  school  began  Keith  sought 
Susan  Betts  in  the  kitchen. 

"Say,  Susan,  that  was  awfully  good  johnny-cake 
we  had  this  morning." 

Susan  picked  up  another  plate  to  dry  and  turned 
toward  her  visitor.  Her  face  was  sternly  grave, 
though  there  was  something  very  like  a  twinkle  in 
her  eye. 

"There  ain't  no  cookies,  if  that's  what  you're 
wantin',"  she  said. 

"Aw,  Susan,  I  never  said  a  word  about  cookies." 

"Then  what  is  it  you  want?  It's  plain  to  be  seen 
there's  something,  I  ween." 

"My,  how  easy  you  do  make  rhymes,  Susan. 
What's  that  'I  ween'  mean?" 

"Now,  Keith  Burton,  this  beatin'  the  bush  like 
this  don't  do  one  mite  of  good.  You  might  jest  as 
well  out  with  it  first  as  last.  Now,  what  is  it  you 
want?" 

Keith  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"Well,  Susan,  there  is  something  —  a  little  some- 
thing —  only  I  meant  what  I  said  about  the  johnny- 
cake  and  the  rhymes;  truly,  I  did." 


32  DAWN 

"Well?"  Susan  was  smiling  faintly. 

"Susan,  you  know  you  can  make  dad  do  any- 
thing." 

Susan  began  to  stiffen,  and  Keith  hastened  to 
disarm  her. 

"No,  no,  truly!  This  is  the  part  I  want.  You 
can  make  dad  do  anything;  and  I  want  you  to  do  it 
for  me." 

"Do  what?" 

"Make  him  let  me  off  from  school  any  more." 

"Let  you  off  from  school!"  In  her  stupefied 
amazement  Susan  actually  forgot  to  pick  up  an- 
other plate  from  the  dishpan. 

"Yes.  Tell  him  I'm  sick,  or  't  is  n't  good  for  me. 
And  truly,  't  is  n't  good  for  me.  And  truly,  I  am 
quite  a  little  sick,  Susan.  I  don't  feel  well  a  bit. 
There's  a  kind  of  sinking  feeling  in  my  stomach, 
and—" 

But  Susan  had  found  her  wits  and  her  tongue  by 
this  time,  and  she  gave  free  rein  to  her  wrath. 

"Let  you  off  from  school,  indeed!  WTiy,  Keith 
Burton,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you  —  an'  you  that  I  've 
always  boasted  of !  What  do  you  want  to  do  — 
grow  up  a  perfect  ignominious?" 

Keith  drew  back  resentfully,  and  uptilted  his 
chin. 

"No,  Susan  Betts,  I'm  not  wanting  to  be  a  —  a 
ignominious,  and  I  don't  intend  to  be  one,  either. 
I  'm  going  to  be  an  artist  —  a  great  big  famous  art- 
ist, and  I  don't  need  school  for  that.  How  are 
multiplication  tables  and  history  and  grammar 


SCHOOL  33 

going  to  help  me  paint  big  pictures?  That's  what 
I  want  to  know.  But  I  'm  afraid  that  dad  —  Say, 
won't  you  tell  dad  that  I  don't  need  books  any  more, 
and — "  But  he  stopped  short,  so  extraordinary 
was  the  expression  that  had  come  to  Susan  Betts's 
face.  If  it  were  possible  to  think  of  Susan  Betts  as 
crying,  he  should  think  she  was  going  to  cry  now. 

"Need  books?  Why,  child,  there  ain't  nobody 
but  what  needs  books.  An'  I  guess  I  know !  What 
do  you  suppose  I  would  n't  give  now  if  I  could  'a' 
had  books  an'  book-learnin'  when  I  was  young?  I 
could  'a'  writ  real  poetry  then  that  would  sell.  I 
could  'a'  spoke  out  an'  said  things  that  are  in  my 
soul,  an'  that  I  can't  say  now,  'cause  I  don't  know 
the  words  that  —  that  will  impress  what  I  mean. 
Now,  look  a-here,  Keith  Burton,  you're  young. 
You've  got  a  chance.  Do  you  see  to  it  that  you 
make  good.  An'  it's  books  that  will  help  you  do  it." 

"But  books  won't  help  me  paint,  Susan." 

"They  will,  too.  Books  will  help  you  do  any- 
thing." 

"Then  you  won't  ask  dad?" 

"Indeed,  I  won't." 

"But  I  don't  see  how  books  — "  With  a  long 
sigh  Keith  turned  away. 

In  the  studio  the  next  morning  he  faced  his 
father. 

"Dad,  you  can't  learn  to  paint  pictures  by  just 
reading  how  to  do  it,  can  you?" 

"You  certainly  cannot,  my  boy." 

"There!  I  told  Susan  Betts  so,  but  she  would  n't 


34  DAWN 

listen  to  me.  And  so  —  I  don't  have  to  go  to  school 
any  more,  do  I?" 

"Don't  have  to  go  to  school  any  more!  Why, 
Keith,  what  an  absurd  idea!  Of  course  you've  got 
to  go  to  school!" 

"But  just  to  be  an  artist  and  paint  pictures,  I 
don't  see  — " 

But  his  father  cut  him  short  and  would  not  listen. 

Five  minutes  later  a  very  disappointed,  dis- 
heartened young  lad  left  the  studio  and  walked 
slowly  down  the  hall. 

There  was  no  way  out  of  it.  If  one  were  success- 
fully to  be  Jerry  and  Ned  and  dad  and  one's  self, 
all  in  one,  there  was  nothing  but  school  and  more 
school,  and,  yes,  college,  that  would  give  one  the 
proper  training.  Dad  had  said  it. 

Keith  went  to  school  the  next  morning.  With  an 
oh-well-I-don't-care  air  he  slung  his  books  over  his 
shoulder  and  swung  out  the  gate,  whistling  blithely. 

It  might  not  be  so  bad,  after  all,  he  was  telling 
himself.  Perhaps  the  print  would  be  plainer  now. 
Anyway,  he  could  learn  a  lot  in  class  listening  to  the 
others;  and  maybe  some  of  the  boys  would  study 
with  him,  and  do  the  reading  part. 

But  it  was  not  to  be  so  easy  as  Keith  hoped  for. 
To  begin  with,  the  print  had  not  grown  any  clearer. 
It  was  more  blurred  than  ever.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
much  worse  with  one  eye  than  with  the  other;  but 
he  could  not  keep  one  eye  shut  all  the  time.  Besides 
—  his  eyes  ached  now  if  he  tried  to  use  them  much, 
and  grew  red  and  inflamed,  and  he  was  afraid  his 


SCHOOL  35 

father  would  notice  them.  He  began  to  see  strange 
flashes  of  rainbow  light  now,  too.  And  sometimes 
little  haloes  around  the  lamp  flame.  As  if  one  could 
study  books  with  all  that! 

True,  he  learned  something  in  class  —  but  nat- 
urally he  was  never  called  upon  to  recite  what  had 
already  been  given,  so  he  invariably  failed  miser- 
ably when  it  came  to  his  turn.  Even  the  "boy  to 
study  with"  proved  to  be  a  delusion  and  a  snare, 
for  no  boy  was  found  who  cared  to  do  "all  the  read- 
ing," without  being  told  the  reason  why  it  was  ex- 
pected of  him  —  and  that  was  exactly  what  Keith 
was  straining  every  nerve  to  keep  to  himself. 

And  so  week  in  and  week  out  Keith  stumbled 
along  through  those  misery-filled  days,  each  one 
seemingly  a  little  more  unbearable  than  the  last. 
Of  course,  it  could  not  continue  indefinitely,  and 
Keith,  in  his  heart,  knew  it.  Almost  every  lesson 
was  more  or  less  of  a  failure,  and  recitation  hour 
was  a  torture  and  a  torment.  The  teacher  alter- 
nately reproved  and  reproached  him,  with  frequent 
appeals  to  his  pride,  holding  up  for  comparison  his 
splendid  standing  of  the  past.  His  classmates  gibed 
and  jeered  mercilessly.  And  Keith  stood  it  all. 
Only  a  tightening  of  his  lips  and  a  new  misery  in 
his  eyes  showed  that  he  had  heard  and  understood. 
He  made  neither  apology  nor  explanation.  Above 
all,  by  neither  word  nor  sign  did  he  betray  that, 
because  the  print  in  his  books  was  blurred,  he  could 
not  study. 

Then  came  the  day  when  his  report  card  was  sent 


36  DAWN 

to  his  father,  and  he  himself  was  summoned  to  the 
studio  to  answer  for  it. 

"Well,  my  son,  what  is  the  meaning  of  that?" 

Keith  had  never  seen  his  father  look  so  stern.  He 
was  holding  up  the  card,  face  outward.  Keith 
knew  that  the  damning  figures  were  there,  and  he 
suspected  what  they  were,  though  he  could  see  only 
a  blurred  mass  of  indistinct  marks.  With  one  last 
effort  he  attempted  still  to  cling  to  his  subter- 
fuge. 

"What  —  what  is  it?"  he  stammered. 

" '  What  is  it? '  —  and  in  the  face  of  a  record  like 
that!"  cried  his  father  sternly.  "That's  exactly 
what  I  want  to  know.  What  is  it?  Is  this  the  way, 
Keith,  that  you  're  showing  me  that  you  don't  want 
to  go  to  school?  I  haven't  forgotten,  you  see,  that 
you  tried  to  beg  off  going  this  fall.  Now,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

Keith  shifted  his  position  miserably.  His  face 
grew  white  and  strained-looking. 

"I  —  I  could  n't  seem  to  get  my  lessons,  dad." 

"Couldn't!  You  mean  you  wouldn't,  Keith. 
Surely,  you're  not  trying  to  make  me  think  you 
could  n't  have  made  a  better  record  than  this,  if 
you'd  tried." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Keith!"  There  was  only  pleading  in  the  voice 
now  —  pleading  with  an  unsteadiness  more  elo- 
quent than  words.  "Have  you  forgotten  so  soon 
what  I  told  you?  —  how  now  you  hold  all  the  hopes 
of  Jerry  and  Ned  and  of  —  dad  in  your  own  two 


SCHOOL  37 

hands?  Keith,  do  you  think,  do  you  really  think 
you're  treating  Jerry  and  Ned  and  dad  —  square? " 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer;  then  a  very 
faint,  constrained  voice  asked: 

"What  were  those  figures,  dad?" 

"Read  for  yourself."  With  the  words  the  card 
was  thrust  into  his  hand. 

Keith  bent  his  head.  His  eyes  apparently  were 
studying  the  card. 

"Suppose  you  read  them  aloud,  Keith." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  with  a  little 
convulsive  breath  the  words  came. 

"I  — can't  — dad." 

The  man  smiled  grimly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  wonder.  They  are 
pretty  bad.  However,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  have 
them.  Read  them  aloud,  Keith." 

"But,  honest,  dad,  I  can't.  I  mean  —  they're  all 
blurred  and  run  together."  The  boy's  face  was 
white  like  paper  now. 

Daniel  Burton  gave  his  son  a  quick  glance. 

"Blurred?  Run  together?"  He  reached  for  the 
card  and  held  it  a  moment  before  his  own  eyes.  Then 
sharply  he  looked  at  his  son  again.  "You  mean  — 
Can't  you  read  any  of  those  figures  —  the  largest 
ones?" 

Keith  shook  his  head- 

"Why,  Keith,  how  long — "  A  sudden  change 
came  to  his  face.  "You  mean  —  is  that  the  reason 
you  have  n't  been  able  to  get  your  lessons,  boy?" 

Keith  nodded  dumbly,  miserably. 


38  DAWN 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  why  in  the  world  did  n't  you 
say  so?  Look  here,  Keith,  how  long  has  this  been 
going  on?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Since  the  very  first  of  school?" 

"Before  that." 

"How  long  before  that?" 

"Last  spring  on  my  —  birthday.  I  noticed  it 
first  —  then." 

"Good  Heavens!  As  long  as  that,  and  never  a 
word  to  me?  Why,  Keith,  what  in  the  world  pos- 
sessed you?  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me?  We'd  have 
had  that  fixed  up  long  ago." 

"Fixed  up?"  Keith's  eyes  were  eager,  incredu- 
lous. 

"To  be  sure.  We'd  have  had  some  glasses,  of 
course." 

Keith  shook  his  head.  All  the  light  fled  from  his 
face. 

"Uncle  Joe  Harrington  tried  that,  but  it  did  n't 
help  —  any." 

"Uncle  Joe!  But  Uncle  Joe  is  — "  Daniel  Bur- 
ton stopped  short.  A  new  look  came  to  his  eyes. 
Into  his  son's  face  he  threw  a  glance  at  once  fear- 
ful, searching,  rebellious.  Then  he  straightened  up 
angrily. 

"Nonsense,  Keith!  Don't  get  silly  notions  into 
your  head,"  he  snapped  sharply.  "It's  nothing 
but  a  little  near-sightedness,  and  we'll  have  some 
glasses  to  remedy  that  in  no  time.  WTe'll  go  down 
to  the  optician's  to-morrow.   Meanwhile  I'll  drop 


SCHOOL  39 

a  note  to  your  teacher,  and  you  need  n't  go  to 
school  again  till  we  get  your  glasses." 

Near-sightedness !  Keith  caught  at  the  straw  and 
held  to  it  fiercely.  Near-sightedness!  Of  course,  it 
was  that,  and  not  blindness,  like  Uncle  Joe's  at  all. 
Didn't  dad  know?  Of  course,  he  did!  Still,  if  it 
was  near-sightedness  he  ought  to  be  able  to  see  near 
to;  and  yet  it  was  just  as  blurred  —  But,  then, 
of  course  it  was  near-sightedness.  Dad  said  it 
was. 

They  went  to  the  optician's  the  next  morning. 
It  seemed  there  was  an  oculist,  too,  and  he  had  to 
be  seen.  When  the  lengthy  and  arduous  examina- 
tions were  concluded,  Keith  drew  a  long  breath. 
Surely  now,  after  all  that  — 

Just  what  they  said  Keith  did  not  know.  He 
knew  only  that  he  did  not  get  any  glasses,  and  that 
his  father  was  very  angry,  and  very  much  put  out 
about  something,  and  that  he  kept  declaring  that 
these  old  idiots  did  n't  know  their  business,  any- 
way, and  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  go  to  Boston 
where  there  was  somebody  who  did  know  his  busi- 
ness. 

They  went  to  Boston  a  few  days  later.  It  was 
not  a  long  journey,  but  Keith  hailed  it  with  delight, 
and  was  very  much  excited  over  the  prospect  of  it. 
Still,  he  did  not  enjoy  it  very  well,  for  with  his  fa- 
ther he  had  to  go  from  one  doctor  to  another,  and 
none  of  them  seemed  really  to  understand  his  busi- 
ness —  that  is,  not  well  enough  to  satisfy  his  father, 
else  why  did  he  go  to  so  many?  And  there  did  not 


40  DAWN 

seem  to  be  anywhere  any  glasses  that  would  do  any 
good. 

Keith  began  to  worry  then,  for  fear  that  his 
father  had  been  wrong,  and  that  it  was  not  near- 
sightedness after  all.  He  could  not  forget  Uncle 
Joe  —  and  Uncle  Joe  had  not  been  able  to  find  any 
glasses  that  did  any  good.  Besides,  he  heard  his 
father  and  the  doctors  talking  a  great  deal  about 
"an  accident,"  and  a  "consequent  injury  to  the 
optic  nerve";  and  he  had  to  answer  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions about  the  time  when  he  was  eleven  years  old 
and  ran  into  the  big  maple  tree  with  his  sled,  cut- 
ting a  bad  gash  in  his  forehead.  But  as  if  that,  so 
long  ago,  could  have  anything  to  do  with  things 
looking  blurred  now! 

But  it  did  have  something  to  do  with  it  —  several 
of  the  doctors  said  that;  and  they  said  it  was  pos- 
sible that  a  slight  operation  now  might  arrest  the 
disease.  They  would  try  it.  Only  one  eye  was 
badly  affected  at  present. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Keith  should  stay  a 
month  with  one  of  the  doctors,  letting  his  father  go 
back  to  Hinsdale. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  experience,  and  it  seemed 
to  Keith  anything  but  a  "slight  operation"; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  month  the  bandages  were 
off,  and  his  father  had  come  to  take  him  back 
home. 

The  print  was  not  quite  so  blurred  now,  though 
it  was  still  far  from  clear,  and  Keith  noticed  that 
his  father  and  the  doctors  had  a  great  deal  to  say 


SCHOOL  41 

to  each  other  in  very  low  tones,  and  that  his  father's 
face  was  very  grave. 

Then  they  started  for  home.  On  the  journey  his 
father  talked  cheerfully,  even  gayly;  but  Keith  was 
not  at  all  deceived.  For  perhaps  half  an  hour  he 
watched  his  father  closely.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Dad,  you  might  just  as  well  tell  me." 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"About  those  doctors  —  what  they  said." 

"Why,  they  said  all  sorts  of  things,  Keith.  You 
heard  them  yourself."  The  man  spoke  lightly,  still 
cheerily. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  said  all  sorts  of  things,  but  they 
did  n't  say  anything  'particular  before  me.  They 
always  talked  to  you  soft  and  low  on  one  side.  I 
want  to  know  what  they  said  then." 

"Why,  really,  Keith,  they  — " 

"Dad,"  interposed  the  boy  a  bit  tensely,  when 
his  father's  hesitation  left  the  sentence  unfinished, 
"you  might  just  as  well  tell  me.  I  know  already 
it  is  n't  good,  or  you  'd  have  told  me  right  away. 
And  if  it 's  bad  —  I  might  just  as  well  know  it  now, 
'cause  I'll  have  to  know  it  sometime.  Dad,  what 
did  they  say?  Don't  worry.  I  can  stand  it  —  hon- 
est, I  can.  I  've  got  to  stand  it.  Besides,  I  've  been 
expecting  it  —  ever  so  long.  *  Keith,  you  're  going 
to  be  blind.'  I  wish't  you'd  say  it  right  out  like 
that  —  if  you've  got  to  say  it." 

But  the  man  shuddered  and  gave  a  low  cry. 

"No,  no,  Keith,  never!  I'll  not  say  it.  You're 
not  going  to  be  blind!" 


42  DAWN 

"But  did  n't  they  say  I  was?" 

"They  said  —  they  said  it  might  be.  They  could 
n't  tell  yet."  The  man  wet  his  lips  and  cleared  his 
throat  huskily.  "They  said  —  it  would  be  some 
time  yet  before  they  could  tell,  for  sure.  And  even 
then,  if  it  came,  there  might  be  another  opera- 
tion that —  But  for  now,  Keith,  we've  got  to 
wait  —  that 's  all.  I  've  got  some  drops,  and  there 
are  certain  things  you'll  have  to  do  each  day. 
You  can't  go  to  school,  and  you  can't  read,  of 
course;  but  there  are  lots  of  things  you  can  do. 
And  there  are  lots  of  things  we  can  do  together  — 
you'll  see.  And  it's  coming  out  all  right.  It's 
bound  to  come  out  all  right." 

"Yes,  sir."  Keith  said  the  two  words,  then  shut 
his  lips  tight.  Keith  could  not  trust  himself  to 
talk  much  just  then.  Babies  and  girls  cried,  of 
course;  but  men,  and  boys  who  were  almost  men 
—  they  did  not  cry. 

For  a  long  minute  he  said  nothing;  then,  with 
his  chin  held  high  and  his  breath  sternly  under 
control,  he  said: 

"Of  course,  dad,  if  I  do  get  blind,  you  won't 
expect  me  to  be  Jerry,  and  Ned,  and  —  and  you, 
all  in  a  bunch,  then,  will  you?" 

This  time  it  was  dad  who  could  not  speak  — 
except  with  a  strong  right  arm  that  clasped  with 
a  pressure  that  hurt. 


CHAPTER  V 
WAITING 

NOT  for  some  days  after  his  return  from  Bos- 
ton did  Keith  venture  out  upon  the  street. 
He  knew  then  at  once  that  the  whole  town  had 
heard  all  about  his  trip  to  Boston  and  what  the 
doctors  had  said.  He  tried  not  to  see  the  curious 
glances  cast  in  his  direction.  He  tried  not  to  care 
that  the  youngest  McGuire  children  stood  at  their 
gate  and  whispered,  with  fingers  plainly  pointing 
toward  himself. 

He  did  not  go  near  the  schoolhouse,  and  he 
stayed  at  the  post-office  until  he  felt  sure  all  the 
scholars  must  have  reached  home.  Then,  just  at 
the  corner  of  his  own  street,  he  met  Mazie  Sanborn 
and  Dorothy  Parkman  face  to  face.  He  would 
have  passed  quickly,  with  the  briefest  sort  of 
recognition,  but  Mazie  stopped  him  short. 

"Keith,  oh,  Keith,  it  is  n't  true,  is  it?"  she  cried 
breathlessly.   "You  are  n't  going  to  be  blind?" 

"Mazie,  how  could  you!"  cried  Dorothy  sharply. 
And  because  she  shuddered  and  half  turned  away, 
Keith  saw  only  the  shudder  and  the  turning  away, 
and  did  not  realize  that  it  was  rebuke  and  remon- 
strance, and  not  aversion,  that  Dorothy  was  ex- 
pressing so  forcibly. 

Keith  stiffened. 

"Say,  Keith,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  and  so's  Dor- 


44  DAWN 

othy.  Why,  she  has  n't  talked  about  a  thing, 
hardly,  but  that,  since  she  heard  of  it." 

"Mazie,  I  have,  too,"  protested  Dorothy 
sharply. 

"Well,  anyway,  it  was  she  who  insisted  on  com- 
ing around  this  way  to-day,"  teased  Mazie  wick- 
edly; "and  when  I  — " 

"I'm  going  home,  whether  you  are  or  not,"  cut 
in  Miss  Dorothy,  with  dignity.  And  with  a  low 
chuckle  Mazie  tossed  a  good-bye  to  Keith  and 
followed  her  lead. 

Keith,  his  chin  aggressively  high,  strode  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"I  suppose  she  wanted  to  see  how  really  bad  I 
did  look,"  he  was  muttering  fiercely,  under  his 
breath.  "Well,  she  need  n't  worry.  If  I  do  get 
blind,  I  '11  take  good  care  she  don't  have  to  look  at 
me,  nor  Mazie,  nor  any  of  the  rest  of  them." 

Keith  went  out  on  the  street  very  little  after  that, 
and  especially  he  kept  away  from  it  after  school 
hours.  They  were  not  easy  —  those  winter  days. 
The  snow  lay  deep  in  the  woods,  and  it  was  too  cold 
for  long  walks.  He  could  not  read,  nor  paint,  nor 
draw,  nor  use  his  eyes  about  anything  that  tried 
them.  But  he  was  by  no  means  idle.  He  had  found 
now  "the  boy  to  do  the  reading" — his  father. 
For  hours  every  day  they  studied  together,  Keith 
memorizing,  where  it  was  necessary,  what  his  fa- 
ther read,  always  discussing  and  working  out  the 
problems  together.  That  he  could  not  paint  or 
draw  was  a  great  cross  to  his  father,  he  knew. 


WAITING  45 

Keith  noticed,  too,  —  and  noticed  it  with  a  growing 
heartache,  —  that  nothing  was  ever  said  now  about 
his  being  Jerry  and  Ned  and  dad  himself  all  in  a 
bunch.  And  he  understood,  of  course,  that  if  he 
was  going  to  be  blind,  he  could  not  be  Jerry  and  — 

But  Keith  was  honestly  trying  not  to  think  of 
that;  and  he  welcomed  most  heartily  anything  or 
anybody  that  helped  him  toward  that  end. 

Now  there  was  Susan.  Not  once  had  Susan  ever 
spoken  to  him  of  his  eyes,  whether  he  could  or  could 
not  see.  But  Susan  knew  about  it.  He  was  sure  of 
that.  First  he  suspected  it  when  he  found  her,  the 
next  day  after  his  return  from  Boston,  crying  in 
the  pantry. 

Susan  crying  !  Keith  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
stared  unbelievingly.  He  had  not  supposed  that 
Susan  could  cry. 

"Why,  Susan ! "  he  gasped.  "What  is  the  matter?" 

He  never  forgot  the  look  on  Susan's  face  as  she 
sprang  toward  him,  or  the  quick  cry  she  gave. 

"Oh,  Keith,  my  boy,  my  boy!"  Then  instantly 
she  straightened  back,  caught  up  a  knife,  and 
began  to  peel  an  onion  from  a  pan  on  the  shelf 
before  her.  "Cryin'?  Nonsense!"  she  snapped 
quaveringly.  "Can't  a  body  peel  a  pan  of  onions 
without  being  accused  of  cryin'  about  somethin'? 
Shucks!  What  should  I  be  cryin'  for,  anyway,  to 
be  sure? 

Some  things  need  a  knife, 

An'  some  things  need  a  pill, 

An'  some  things  jest  a  laugh '11  make  a  cure. 


46  DAWN 

But  jest  you  bet  your  life, 

You  may  cry  jest  fit  to  kill, 

An'  never  cure  nothin'  —  that  is  sure. 

That's  what  I  always  say  when  I  see  folks  cryin'. 
An'  it's  so,  too.  Here,  Keith,  want  a  cooky? 
An'  take  a  jam  tart,  too.  I  made  'em  this  mornin', 
'specially  for  you." 

With  which  astounding  procedure  —  for  her  — 
Susan  pushed  a  plate  of  cookies  and  tarts  toward 
him,  then  picked  up  her  pan  of  onions  and  hurried 
into  the  kitchen. 

Once  again  Keith  stared.  Cookies  and  jam  tarts, 
and  made  for  him?  If  anything,  this  was  even 
more  incomprehensible  than  were  the  tears  in 
Susan's  eyes.  Then  suddenly  the  suspicion  came 
to  him  —  Susan  knew.    And  this  was  her  way  — 

The  suspicion  did  not  become  a  certainty,  how- 
ever, until  two  days  later.  Then  he  overheard 
Susan  and  Mrs.  McGuire  talking  in  the  kitchen. 
He  had  slipped  into  the  pantry  to  look  for  another 
of  those  cookies  made  for  him,  when  he  heard  Mrs. 
McGuire  burst  into  the  kitchen  and  accost  Susan 
agitatedly.  And  her  first  words  were  such  that  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  step  out  into  view. 

"Susan,"  she  had  cried,  "it  ain't  true,  is  it? 
Is  it  true  that  Keith  Burton  is  going  —  blind  ? 
My  John  says  — " 

"Sh-h!  You  don't  have  to  shout  it  out  like  that, 
do  ye?"  demanded  Susan  crossly,  yet  in  a  voice 
that  was  far  from  steady.  "Besides,  that's  a  very 
extravagated  statement." 


WAITING  47 

"You  mean  exaggerated,  I  suppose,"  retorted 
Mrs.  McGuire  impatiently.  "Well,  I'm  sure  I'm 
glad  if  it  is,  of  course.  But  can't  you  tell  me  any- 
thing about  it?   Or,  don't  you  know?" 

Keith  knew  —  though  he  could  not  see  her  — 
just  how  Susan  was  drawing  herself  up  to  her  full 
height. 

"I  guess  I  know  —  all  there  is  to  know,  Mis' 
McGuire,"  she  said  then  coldly.  "But  there  ain't 
anybody  knows  anything.  We're  jest  waitin'  to 
see."   Her  voice  had  grown  unsteady  again. 

"You  mean  he  may  be  blind,  later?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  the  poor  boy!  Ain't  that  terrible?  How 
can  they  stand  it?" 

"I  notice  there  are  things  in  this  world  that  have 
to  be  stood.  An'  when  they  have  to  be  stood,  they 
might  as  well  be  —  stood,  an'  done  with  it." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  sighed  Mrs.  McGuire. 
Then,  after  a  pause:  "But  what  is  it  —  that's 
makin'  him  blind?" 

"I  don't  know.  They  ain't  sayin'.  I  thought  may- 
be 't  was  a  catamount,  but  they  say  't  ain't  that." 

"But  when  is  it  liable  to  come?" 

"Come?  How  do  I  know?  How  does  anybody 
know?"  snapped  Susan  tartly.  "Look  a-here, 
Mis'  McGuire,  you  must  excuse  me  from  discoursin' 
particulars.  We  don't  talk  'em  here.  None  of  us 
don't." 

"Well,  you  need  n't  be  so  short  about  it,  Susan 
Betts.    I'm  only  tryin'  to  show  a  little  sympathy. 


48  DAWN 

You  don't  seem  to  realize  at  all  what  a  dreadful 
thing  this  is.   My  John  says — " 

"Don't  I  —  don't  I?"  Susan's  voice  shook  with 
emotion.  "Don't  you  s'pose  that  I  know  what  it 
would  be  with  the  sun  put  out,  an'  the  moon  an' 
the  stars,  an'  never  a  thing  to  look  at  but  black 
darkness  all  the  rest  of  your  life?  Never  to  be  able 
to  see  the  blue  sky,  or  your  father's  face,  or  — 
But  talkin'  about  it  don't  help  any.  Look  a-here, 
if  somethin'  awful  was  goin'  to  happen  to  you, 
would  you  want  folks  to  be  talkin'  to  you  all  the 
time  about  it?  No,  I  guess  you  would  n't.  An' 
so  we  don't  talk  here.  We're  just  —  waitin'.  It 
may  come  in  a  year,  it  may  come  sooner,  or  later. 
It  may  not  come  at  all.  An'  while  we  are  waitin* 
there  ain't  nothin'  we  can  do  except  to  do  ev'ry- 
thing  the  doctor  tells  us,  an'  hope  —  't  won't  ever 
come." 

Even  Mrs.  McGuire  could  have  had  no  further 
doubt  about  Susan's  "caring."  No  one  who  heard 
Susan's  voice  then  could  have  doubted  it.  Mrs. 
McGuire,  for  a  moment,  made  no  answer;  then, 
with  an  inarticulate  something  that  might  have 
passed  for  almost  any  sort  of  comment,  she  rose 
to  her  feet  and  left  the  house. 

In  the  pantry,  Keith,  the  cookies  long  since  for- 
gotten, shamelessly  listened  at  the  door  and  held 
his  breath  to  see  which  way  Susan's  footsteps  led. 
Then,  when  he  knew  that  the  kitchen  was  empty, 
he  slipped  out,  still  cookyless,  and  hurried  upstairs 
to  his  own  room. 


WAITING  49 

Keith  understood,  after  that,  why  Susan  did  not 
talk  to  him  about  his  eyes;  and  because  he  knew 
she  would  not  talk,  he  felt  at  ease  and  at  peace  with 
her. 

It  was  not  so  with  others.  With  others  (except 
with  his  father)  he  never  knew  when  a  dread  ques- 
tion or  a  hated  comment  was  to  be  made.  And  so 
he  came  to  avoid  those  others  more  and  more. 

At  the  first  signs  of  spring,  and  long  before  the 
snow  was  off  the  ground,  Keith  took  to  the  woods. 
When  his  father  did  not  care  to  go,  he  went  alone. 
It  was  as  if  he  wanted  to  fill  his  inner  consciousness 
with  the  sights  and  sounds  of  his  beloved  out-of- 
doors,  so  that  when  his  outer  eyes  were  darkened, 
his  inner  eyes  might  still  hold  the  pictures.  Keith 
did  not  say  this,  even  to  himself;  but  when  every 
day  Susan  questioned  him  minutely  as  to  what  he 
had  seen,  and  begged  him  to  describe  every  bud- 
ding tree  and  every  sunset,  he  wondered;  was  it 
possible  that  Susan,  too,  was  trying  to  fill  that  inner 
consciousness  with  visions? 

Keith  was  thrown  a  good  deal  with  Susan  these 
days.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  almost 
no  one  but  Susan.  Certainly  all  those  others  who 
talked  and  questioned  —  he  did  not  want  to  be  with 
them.  And  his  father  —  sometimes  it  seemed  to 
Keith  that  his  father  did  not  like  to  be  with  him  as 
well  as  he  used  to.  And,  of  course,  if  he  was  go- 
ing to  be  blind  —  Dad  never  had  liked  disagree- 
able subjects.  Had  he  become  —  a  disagreeable 
subject? 


50  DAWN 

And  so  there  seemed,  indeed,  at  times,  no  one  but 
Susan.  Susan,  however,  was  a  host  in  herself. 
Susan  was  never  cross  now,  and  almost  always  she 
had  a  cooky  or  a  jam  tart  for  him.  She  told  lots 
of  funny  stories,  and  there  were  always  her  rhymes 
and  jingles.  She  had  a  new  one  every  day,  some- 
times two  or  three  a  day. 

There  was  no  subject  too  big  or  too  little  for 
Susan  to  put  into  rhyme.  Susan  said  that  some- 
thing inside  of  her  was  a  gushing  siphon  of  poems, 
anyway,  and  she  just  had  to  get  them  out  of  her 
system.  And  she  told  Keith  that  spring  always 
made  the  siphon  gush  worse  than  ever,  for  some 
reason.   She  did  n't  know  why. 

Keith  suspected  that  she  said  this  by  way  of  an 
excuse  for  repeating  so  many  of  her  verses  to  him 
just  now.  But  Keith  was  not  deceived.  He  had  not 
forgotten  what  Susan  had  said  to  Mrs.  McGuire 
in  the  kitchen  that  day;  and  he  knew  very  well  that 
all  this  especial  attention  to  him  was  only  Susan's 
way  of  trying  to  help  him  "wait." 


CHAPTER  VI 
LIGHTS  OUT 

AND  so  Keith  waited,  through  the  summer 
and  into  another  winter.  And  April  came. 
Keith  was  not  listening  to  Susan's  rhymes  and 
jingles  now,  nor  was  he  tramping  through  the 
woods  in  search  of  the  first  sign  of  spring.  Both 
eyes  had  become  badly  affected  now.  Keith  knew 
that  and  — 

The  fog  had  come.  Keith  had  seen  the  fog  for 
several  days  before  he  knew  what  it  was.  He  had 
supposed  it  to  be  really  —  fog.  Then  one  day  he 
said  to  Susan: 

"Where's  the  sun?  We  have  n't  had  any  bright 
sun  for  days  and  days  —  just  this  horrid  old  foggy 
fog." 

"Fog?  Why,  there  ain't  any  fog!"  exclaimed 
Susan.  "The  sun  is  as  bright — "  She  stopped 
short.  Keith  could  not  see  her  face  very  clearly  — ■ 
Keith  was  not  seeing  anything  clearly  these  days. 
"Nonsense,  Keith,  of  course,  the  sun  is  shinin'!" 
snapped  Susan.  "Now  don't  get  silly  notions  in 
your  head!"  Then  she  turned  and  hurried  from 
the  room. 

And  Keith  knew.  And  he  knew  that  Svsan 
knew. 

Keith  did  not  mention  the  fog  to  his  father  — 
dad  did  not  like  disagreeable  subjects.   But  some- 


52  DAWN 

body  must  have  mentioned  it  —  Susan,  perhaps. 
At  all  events,  before  the  week  was  out  Keith  went 
with  his  father  again  to  Boston. 

It  was  a  sorry  journey.  Keith  did  not  need  to 
go  to  Boston.  Keith  knew  now.  There  was  no  one 
who  could  tell  him  anything.  Dad  might  laugh 
and  joke  and  call  attention  to  everything  amusing 
that  he  wanted  to  —  it  would  make  no  difference. 
Besides,  as  if  he  could  not  hear  the  shake  in  dad's 
voice  under  all  the  fun,  and  as  if  he  could  not  feel 
the  tremble  in  dad's  hand  on  his  shoulder! 

Boston  was  the  same  dreary  round  of  testing, 
talk,  and  questions,  hushed  voices  and  furtive 
glances,  hurried  trips  from  place  to  place;  only  this 
time  it  was  all  sharper,  shorter,  more  decisive,  and 
there  was  no  operation.  It  was  not  the  time  for  that 
now,  the  doctors  said.  Moreover,  this  time  dad 
did  not  laugh,  or  joke,  or  even  talk  on  the  home- 
ward journey.  But  that,  too,  made  no  difference. 
Keith  already  knew. 

He  knew  so  well  that  he  did  not  question  him 
at  all.  But  if  he  had  not  known,  he  would  have 
known  from  Susan  the  next  day.  For  he  found 
Susan  crying  three  times  the  next  forenoon,  and 
each  time  she  snapped  out  so  short  and  sharp 
about  something  so  entirely  foreign  from  what  he 
asked  her  that  he  would  have  known  that  Susan 
knew. 

Keith  did  wonder  how  many  months  it  would  be. 
Some  way  he  had  an  idea  it  would  be  very  few  now. 
As  long  as  it  was  coming  he  wished  it  would  come, 


LIGHTS  OUT  53 

and  come  quick.  This  waiting  business  —  On  the 
whole  he  was  glad  that  Susan  was  cross,  and  that  his 
father  spent  his  days  shut  away  in  his  own  room 
with  orders  that  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed.  For, 
as  for  talking  about  this  thing  — 

It  was  toward  the  last  of  July  that  Keith  dis- 
covered how  indistinct  were  growing  the  outlines 
of  the  big  pictures  on  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  Day  by  day  he  had  to  walk  nearer  and  nearer 
before  he  could  see  them  at  all.  He  wondered  just 
how  many  steps  would  bring  him  to  the  wall  itself. 
He  was  tempted  once  to  count  them  —  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  do  that;  so  he  knew  then 
that  in  his  heart  he  did  not  want  to  know  just  how 
many  days  it  would  be  before  — 

But  there  came  a  day  when  he  was  but  two  steps 
away.  He  told  himself  it  would  be  in  two  days  then. 
But  it  did  not  come  in  two  days.  It  did  not  come 
in  a  week.   Then,  very  suddenly,  it  came. 

He  woke  up  one  morning  to  find  it  quite  dark. 
For  a  minute  he  thought  it  was  dark;  then  the 
clock  struck  seven  —  and  it  was  August. 

Something  within  Keith  seemed  to  snap  then. 
The  long-pent  strain  of  months  gave  way.  With 
one  agonized  cry  of  "Dad,  it's  come  —  it's 
come!"  he  sprang  from  the  bed,  then  stood  mo- 
tionless in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his  arms  out- 
stretched. But  when  his  father  and  Susan  reached 
the  room  he  had  fallen  to  the  floor  in  a  dead  faint. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  Keith  stood  upright 
on  his  feet  again.  His  illness  was  a  long  and  serious 


54  DAWN 

one.  Late  in  September,  Mrs.  McGuire,  hanging 
out  her  clothes,  accosted  Susan  over  the  back-yard 
fence. 

"I  heard  down  to  the  store  last  night  that  Keith 
Burton  was  goin'  to  get  well." 

"Of  course  he 's  goin'  to  get  well,"  retorted 
Susan  with  emphasis.  "I  knew  he  was,  all  the 
time." 

"All  the  same,  I  think  it's  a  pity  he  is."  Mrs. 
McGuire's  lips  came  together  a  bit  firmly.  "He's 
stone  blind,  I  hear,  an'  my  John  says  — •*' 

"Well,  what  if  he  is?"  demanded  Susan,  almost 
fiercely.  "You  would  n't  kill  the  child,  would 
you?  Besides.  seeirC  is  only  one  of  his  facilities. 
He's  got  all  the  rest  left.  I  reckon  he'll  show  you 
he  can  do  somethin'  with  them." 

Mrs.  McGuire  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"Poor  boy,  poor  boy!  How's  he  feel  himself? 
Has  he  got  his  senses,  his  real  senses  yet?" 

"He's  just  beginnin'  to."  The  harshness  in 
Susan's  voice  betrayed  her  difficulty  in  controlling 
it.  "Up  to  now  he  hain't  sensed  anything,  much. 
Of  course,  part  of  the  time  he  hain't  known  any- 
thing —  jest  lay  there  in  a  stupid.  Then,  other 
times  he's  jest  moaned  of — of  the  dark — always 
the  dark. 

"At  first  he  —  when  he  talked  —  seemed  to 
be  walkin'  through  the  woods;  an'  he'd  tell  all 
about  what  he  saw;  the  'purple  sunsets,'  an' 
'dancin'  leaves,'  an'  the  'merry  little  brooks  hur- 
ryin'  down  the  hillside,'  till  you  could  jest  see  the 


LIGHTS  OUT  55 

place  he  was  talkin'  about.  But  now  —  now  he's 
comin'  to  full  conscientiousness,  the  doctor  says; 
an'  he  don't  talk  of  anything  only  —  only  the  dark. 
An'  pretty  quick  he'll  —  know." 

"  An'  yet  you  want  that  poor  child  to  live,  Susan 
Betts!" 

"Of  course  I  want  him  to  live!" 

"But  what  can  he  do?" 

"Do?  There  ain't  nothin'  he  can't  do.  Why, 
Mis'  McGuire,  listen !  I  've  been  readin'  up.  First, 
I  felt  as  you  do  —  a  little.  I  —  I  did  n't  want  him 
to  live.  Then  I  heard  of  somebody  who  was  blind, 
an'  what  he  did.  He  wrote  a  great  book.  I  've  for- 
gotten its  name,  but  it  was  somethin'  about  Para- 
dise. Paradise  —  an'  he  was  in  prison,  too.  Think 
of  writin'  about  Paradise  when  you're  shut  up  in 
jail  —  an'  blind,  at  that!  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind 
if  that  man  could  see  Paradise  through  them  prison 
bars  with  his  poor  blind  eyes,  then  Keith  could. 
An'  I  was  goin'  to  have  him  do  it,  too.  An'  so  I 
went  down  to  the  library  an'  asked  Miss  Hemenway 
for  a  book  about  him.  An'  I  read  it.  An'  then  she 
told  me  about  more  an'  more  folks  that  was  blind, 
an'  what  they  had  done.  An'  I  read  about  them,  too." 

"Well,  gracious  me,  Susan  Betts,  if  you  ain't 
the  limit!"  commented  Mrs.  McGuire,  half  admir- 
ingly, half  disapprovingly. 

"Well,  I  did.  An'— why,  Mis'  McGuire,  you 
hain't  any  inception  of  an  idea  of  what  those  men 
an'  women  an'  —  yes,  children  —  did.  WTiy,  one 
of  'em  was  n't  only  blind,  but  deaf  an'  dumb,  too. 


56  DAWN 

She  was  a  girl.  An'  now  she  writes  books  an*  gives 
lecturin's,  an',  oh,  ev'rything." 

"Maybe.  I  ain't  say  in' they  don't.  But  I  guess 
somebody  else  has  to  do  a  part  of  it.  Look  at  Keith 
right  here  now.  How  are  you  goin'  to  take  care  of 
him  when  he  gets  up  an'  begins  to  walk  around? 
Why,  he  can't  see  to  walk  or  —  or  feed  himself,  or 
anything.   Has  the  nurse  gone?  " 

Susan  shook  her  head.  Her  lips  came  together 
grimly. 

"No.  Goes  next  week,  though.  Land's  sakes, 
but  I  hope  that  woman  is  expulsive  enough! 
Them  entrained  nurses  always  cost  a  lot,  I  guess. 
But  we've  just  had  to  have  her  while  he  was  so 
sick.   But  she's  goin'  next  week." 

"But  what  are  you  goin'  to  do?  You  can't  tag 
him  around  all  day  an'  do  your  other  work,  too. 
Of  course,  there's  his  father  — " 

"His  father!  Good  Heavens,  woman,  I  wonder 
if  you  think  I'd  trust  that  boy  to  his  father?" 
demanded  Susan  indignantly.  "Why,  once  let 
him  get  his  nose  into  that  paint-box,  an'  he  don't 
know  anything  —  not  anything.  Why,  I  would  n't 
trust  him  with  a  baby  rabbit  —  if  I  cared  for  the 
rabbit.  Besides,  he  don't  like  to  be  with  Keith,  nor 
see  him,  nor  think  of  him.   He  feels  so  bad." 

"Humph!  Well,  if  he  does  feel  bad  I  don't  think 
that's  a  very  nice  way  to  show  it.  Not  think  of 
him,  indeed!  Well,  I  guess  he'll  find  some  one  has 
got  to  think  of  him  now.  But  there!  that's  what 
you   might   expect   of  Daniel  Burton,   I   s'pose, 


LIGHTS  OUT  57 

moonin'  all  day  over  those  silly  pictures  of  his. 
As  my  John  says  — " 

"They're  not  silly  pictures,"  cut  in  Susan,  flar- 
ing into  instant  wrath.  "He  has  to  paint  pictures 
in  order  to  get  money  to  live,  don't  he?  Well,  then, 
let  him  paint.  He's  an  artist  —  an  extinguished 
artist  —  not  just  a  common  storekeeper."  (Mr. 
McGuire,  it  might  be  mentioned  in  passing,  kept 
a  grocery  store.)  "An'  if  you're  artistical,  you're 
different  from  other  folks.   You  have  to  be." 

"Nonsense,  Susan!  That's  all  bosh,  an'  you 
know  it.  What  if  he  does  paint  pictures?  That 
had  n't  ought  to  hinder  him  from  takin'  proper 
care  of  his  own  son,  had  it?" 

"Yes,  if  he's  blind."  Susan  spoke  with  firmness 
and  decision.  "You  don't  seem  to  understand  at 
all,  Mis'  McGuire.  Mr.  Burton  is  an  artist.  Artists 
like  flowers  an'  sunsets  an'  clouds  an'  brooks. 
They  don't  like  disagreeable  things.  They  don't 
want  to  see  'em  or  think  about  'em.  I  know.  It's 
that  way  with  Mr.  Burton.  Before,  when  Keith 
was  all  right,  he  could  n't  bear  him  out  of  his 
sight,  an'  he  was  goin'  to  have  him  do  such  big, 
fine,  splendid  things  when  he  grew  up.  Now,  since 
he's  blind,  he  can't  bear  him  in  his  sight.  He  feels 
that  bad.  He  just  won't  be  with  him  if  he  can  help 
it.  But  he  ain't  forgettin'  him.  He's  thinkin'  of 
him  all  the  time.  J  know.  An'  it's  tellin'  on  him. 
He's  lookin'  thin  an'  bad  an'  sick.  You  see,  he's 
so  disappointed,  when  he'd  counted  on  such  big 
things  for  that  boy!" 


58  DAWN 

"Humph!  Well,  I'll  risk  him.  It's  Keith  I'm 
worry  in'  about.  Who  is  going  to  take  care  of  him?  " 

Susan  Betts  frowned. 

"Well,  I  could,  I  think.  But  there's  a  sister  of 
Mr.  Burton's  —  she's  comin'." 

"Not  Nettie  Colebrook?" 

"Yes,  Mis'  Colebrook.  That's  her  name.  She's 
a  widow,  an'  hain't  got  anything  needin'  her.  She 
wrote  an'  offered,  an'  Mr.  Burton  said  yes,  if  she'd 
be  so  kind.   An'  she's  comin'." 

"When?" 

"Next  week.  The  day  the  nurse  goes.  Why? 
What  makes  you  look  so  queer?  Do  you  know  — 
Mis'  Colebrook?" 

"Know  Nettie  Burton  Colebrook?  Well,  I 
should  say  I  did !  I  went  to  boardin'-school  with 
her." 

"Humph!"  Susan  threw  a  sharp  glance  into 
Mrs.  McGuire's  face.  Susan  looked  as  if  she 
wanted  to  ask  another  question.  But  she  did  not 
ask  it.  "Humph!"  she  grunted  again;  and  turned 
back  to  the  sheet  she  was  hanging  on  the  line. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  then  Mrs.  McGuire 
commented  dryly: 

"I  notice  you  ain't  doin'  no  rhymin'  to-day, 
Susan." 

"Ain't  I?  Well,  perhaps  I  ain't.  Some  way, 
they  don't  come  out  now  so  natural  an'  easy-like." 

"What's  the  matter?  Ain't  the  machine 
workin'?" 

Susan  shook  her  head.  Then  she  drew  a  long 


LIGHTS  OUT  59 

sigh.  Picking  up  her  empty  basket  she  looked  at  it 
somberly. 

"Not  the  way  it  did  before.  Some  way,  there 
don't  seem  anything  inside  of  me  now  only  dirges 
an'  funeral  marches.  Everywhere,  all  day,  every- 
thing I  do  an'  everywhere  I  go  I  jest  hear:  'Keith's 
blind,  Keith 's  blind ! '  till  it  seems  as  if  I  jest 
could  n't  bear  it." 

With  something  very  like  a  sob  Susan  turned 
and  hurried  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE 

IT  was  when  the  nurse  was  resting  and  Susan 
was  with  Keith  that  the  boy  came  to  a  full, 
realizing  sense  of  himself,  on  his  lips  the  time-worn 
question  asked  by  countless  other  minds  back  from 
that  mysterious  land  of  delirium: 

"Where  ami?" 

Susan  sprang  to  her  feet,  then  dropped  on  her 
knees  at  the  bedside. 

"In  your  own  bed  —  honey." 

"Is  that  —  Susan?"  No  wonder  he  asked  the 
question.  Whenever  before  had  Susan  talked  like 
that? 

"Sure  it's  Susan." 

"But  I  can't  —  see  you  —  or  anything.  Oh-h!" 
With  a  shudder  and  a  quivering  cry  the  boy  flung 
out  his  hands,  then  covered  his  eyes  with  them. 
"I  know,  now,  I  know!  It's  come  —  it's  come! 
I  am  —  blind!'* 

"There,  there,  honey,  don't,  please  don't.  You'll 
break  Susan's  heart.  An'  you're  so  much  better 
now." 

"Better?" 

"Yes.   You've  been  sick  -+  very  sick." 

"How  long?" 

"Oh,  several  weeks.   It's  October  now." 

"And  I've  been  blind  all  that  time?" 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  61 

"Yes." 

"But  I  have  n't  known  I  was  blind!" 

"No." 

"I  want  to  go  back — I  want  to  go  back,  where 
I  did  n't  know  —  again." 

"Nonsense,  Keith!"  (Susan  was  beginning  to 
talk  more  like  herself.)  "Go  back  to  be  sick? 
Of  course  you  don't  want  to  go  back  an'  be  sick! 
Listen! 

Don't  you  worry,  an'  don't  you  fret. 
Somethin'  better  is  comin'  yet. 
Somethin' fine!  What '11  you  bet? 
It's  jest  the  thing  you're  wantin'  ter  get! 

Come,  come!  We're  goin'  to  have  you  up  an'  out 
in  no  time,  now,  boy!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  up  and  out.  I'm  blind, 
Susan." 

"An'  there's  your  dad.  He'll  be  mighty  glad  to 
know  you  're  better.  I  '11  call  him." 

"No,  no,  Susan  —  don't!  Don't  call  him.  He 
won't  want  to  see  me.  Nobody  will  want  to  see 
me  now.   I'm  blind,  Susan  —  blind!" 

"Shucks!  Everybody  will  want  to  see  you, 
so's  to  see  how  splendid  you  are,  even  if  you  are 
blind.  Now  don't  talk  any  more  —  please  don't; 
there's  a  good  boy.  You're  gettin'  yourself  all 
worked  up,  an'  then,  oh,  my,  how  that  nurse  will 
scold!" 

"I  shan't  be  splendid,"  moaned  the  boy.  "I 
shan't  be  anything,  now.  I  shan't  be  Jerry  or  Ned 
or  dad.   I  shall  be  just  me.  And  I'll  be  pointed  at 


m  DAWN 

everywhere;  and  they'll  whisper  and  look  and 
stare,  and  say,  '  He 's  blind  —  he 's  blind  —  he 's 
blind.'  I  tell  you,  Susan,  I  can't  stand  it.  I  can't 
—  I  can't !  I  want  to  go  back.  I  want  to  go  back  to 
where  I  did  n't  —  know!" 

The  nurse  came  in  then,  and  of  course  Susan  was 
banished  in  disgrace.  Of  course,  too,  Keith  was 
almost  in  hysterics,  and  his  fever  had  gone  away 
up  again.  He  still  talked  in  a  high,  shrill  voice, 
and  still  thrashed  his  arms  wildly  about,  till  the 
little  white  powder  the  nurse  gave  him  got  in  its 
blessed  work.   And  then  he  slept. 

Keith  was  entirely  conscious  the  next  day  when 
Susan  came  in  to  sit  with  him  while  the  nurse  took 
her  rest.  But  it  was  a  very  different  Keith.  It  was 
a  weary,  spent,  nerveless  Keith  that  lay  back  on 
the  pillow  with  scarcely  so  much  as  the  flutter  of 
an  eyelid  to  show  life. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  get  you,  Keith?"  she 
asked,  when  a  long-drawn  sigh  convinced  her  that 
he  was  awake. 

Only  a  faint  shake  of  the  head  answered  her. 

"The  doctor  says  you're  lots  better,  Keith." 

There  was  no  sort  of  reply  to  this;  and  for  another 
long  minute  Susan  sat  tense  and  motionless,  watch- 
ing the  boy's  face.  Then,  with  almost  a  guilty 
look  over  her  shoulder,  she  stammered : 

"Keith,  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  to  me,  but  I 
do  wish  you'd  just  speak  to  me." 

But  Keith  only  shook  his  head  again  faintly  and 
turned  his  face  away  to  the  wall. 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  63 

By  and  by  the  nurse  came  in,  and  Susan  left  the 
room.  She  went  straight  to  the  kitchen,  and  she 
did  not  so  much  as  look  toward  Keith's  father 
whom  she  met  in  the  hall.  In  the  kitchen  Susan 
caught  up  a  cloth  and  vigorously  began  to  polish 
a  brass  faucet.  The  faucet  was  already  a  marvel 
of  brightness;  but  perhaps  Susan  could  not  see  that. 
One  cannot  always  see  clearly  —  through  tears. 

Keith  was  like  this  every  day  after  that,  when 
Susan  came  in  to  sit  with  him  —  silent,  listless, 
seemingly  devoid  of  life.  Yet  the  doctor  declared 
that  physically  the  boy  was  practically  well.  And 
the  nurse  was  going  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  nurse's  stay,  Susan  ac- 
costed her  in  the  hall  somewhat  abruptly. 

"Is  it  true  that  by  an'  by  there  could  be  an 
operator  on  that  boy's  eyes?" 

"Oper  —  er  —  oh,  operation!  Yes,  there  might 
be,  if  he  could  only  get  strong  enough  to  stand  it. 
But  it  might  not  be  successful,  even  then." 

"But  there's  a  chance?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  chance." 

"I  s'pose  it  —  it  would  be  mighty  expulsive, 
though." 

"Expulsive?"  The  young  woman  frowned 
slightly;  then  suddenly  she  smiled.  "Oh!  Oh,  yes, 
I  —  I  'm  afraid  it  would  —  er  —  cost  a  good  deal  of 
money,"  she  nodded  over  her  shoulder  as  she  went 
on  into  Keith's  room. 

That  evening  Susan  sought  her  employer  in  the 
studio.   Daniel  Burton  spent  all  his  waking  hours 


64  DAWN 

in  the  studio  now.  The  woods  and  fields  were 
nothing  but  a  barren  desert  of  loneliness  to  Daniel 
Burton  —  without  Keith. 

The  very  poise  of  Susan's  head  spelt  aggressive 
determination  as  she  entered  the  studio;  and  Daniel 
Burton  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair  as  he  faced  her. 
Nor  did  he  fail  to  note  that  she  carried  some  folded 
papers  in  her  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  Susan,  I  know.  Those  bills  are  due, 
and  past  due,"  he  cried  nervously,  before  Susan 
could  speak.  "And  I  hoped  to  have  the  money, 
both  for  them  and  for  your  wages,  long  before  this. 
But  —  " 

Susan  stopped  him  short  with  an  imperative 
gesture. 

"  'T  ain't  bills,  Mr.  Burton,  an'  't  ain't  wages. 
It's  —  it's  somethin'  else.  Somethin'  very  im- 
portune." There  was  a  subdued  excitement  in 
Susan's  face  and  manner  that  was  puzzling,  yet 
most  promising. 

Unconsciously  Daniel  Burton  sat  a  little  straight- 
er  and  lifted  his  chin  —  though  his  eyes  were  smil- 
ing. 

"Something  else?" 

"Yes.  It's— poetry." 

"Oh,  Susan  /"  It  was  as  if  a  bubble  had  been 
pricked,  leaving  nothing  but  empty  air. 

"But  you  don't  know  —  you  don't  understand, 
yet,"  pleaded  Susan,  unerringly  reading  the  disap- 
pointment in  her  employer's  face.  "It's  to  sell  — 
to  get  some  money,  you  know,  for  the  operator  on 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  65 

the  poor  lamb's  eyes.  I  —  I  wanted  to  help,  some 
way.  An'  this  is  real  poetry  —  truly  it  is !  —  not  the 
immaculate  kind  that  I  jest  dash  off!  I've  worked 
an'  worked  over  this,  an'  I'm  jest  sure  it'll  sell. 
It's  got  to  sell,  Mr.  Burton.  We've  jest  got  to  have 
that  money.  An'  now,  I  —  I  want  to  read  'em  to 
you.   Can't  I,  please?" 

And  this  from  Susan  —  this  palpitating,  pleading 
"please"!  Daniel  Burton,  with  a  helpless  gesture 
that  expressed  embarrassment,  dismay,  bewilder- 
ment, and  resignation,  threw  up  both  hands  and 
settled  back  in  his  chair. 

"Why,  of  —  of  course,  Susan,  read  them,"  he 
muttered  as  clearly  as  he  could,  considering  the 
tightness  that  had  come  into  his  throat. 

And  Susan  read  this: 

SPRING 

Oh,  gentle  Spring,  I  love  thy  rills, 

I  love  thy  wooden,  rocky  rills, 

I  love  thy  budsome  beauty. 

But,  oh,  I  hate  o'er  anything, 

Thy  mud  an'  slush,  oh,  gentle  Spring, 

When  rubbers  are  a  duty. 

"That's  the  shortest  —  the  other  is  longer,"  ex- 
plained Susan,  still  the  extraordinary,  palpitating 
Susan,  with  the  shining,  pleading  eyes. 

"Yes,  go  on."  Daniel  Burton  had  to  clear  his 
throat  before  he  could  say  even  those  two  short 
words. 

"I  called  this  'Them  Things  That  Plague,"'  said 
Susan.  "An'  it's  really  true,  too.  Don't  you  know? 


66  DAWN 

Things  do  plague  worse  nights,  when  you  can't 
sleep.  An'  you  get  to  thinkin'  an'  thinkin'.  Well, 
that's  what  made  me  write  this."  And  she  began 
to  read: 

THEM  THINGS  THAT  PLAGUE 

They  come  at  night,  them  things  that  plague, 

An'  gather  round  my  bed. 

They  cluster  thick  about  the  foot, 

An'  lean  on  top  the  head. 

They  like  the  dark,  them  things  that  plague, 
For  then  they  can  be  great, 
They  loom  like  doom  from  out  the  gloom, 
An'  shriek:  "I  am  your  Fate!" 

But,  after  all,  them  things  that  plague 
Are  cowards  —  Say  not  you?  — 
To  strike  a  man  when  he  is  down, 
An'  in  the  darkness,  too. 

For  if  you'll  watch  them  things  that  plague, 
Till  comin'  of  the  dawn, 
You'll  find,  when  once  you're  on  your  feet, 
Them  things  that  plague  —  are  gone! 

"There,  ain't  that  true  —  every  word  of  it?"  she 
demanded.  "An'  there  ain't  hardly  any  poem  li- 
cense in  it,  too.  I  think  they  're  a  ways  lots  better 
when  there  ain't;  but  sometimes,  of  course,  you 
jest  have  to  use  it.  There!  an'  now  I've  read  'em 
both  to  you  —  an'  how  much  do  you  s'pose  I  can 
get  for  'em  —  the  two  of  'em,  either  singly  or 
doubly?"  Susan  was  still  breathless,  still  shining- 
eyed  —  a  strange,  exotic  Susan,  that  Daniel  Burton 
had  never  seen  before.  "I've  heard  that  writers  — 
some  writers  —  get  lots  of  money,  Mr.  Burton,  an' 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  67 

I  can  write  more  —  lots  more.  Why,  when  I  get  to 
goin'  they  jest  come  autocratically  —  poems  do  — 
without  any  thinkin'  at  all;  an'  —  But  how  much 
do  you  think  I  ought  to  get?" 

"Get?  Good  Heavens  woman!"  Daniel  Burton 
was  on  his  feet  now  trying  to  shake  off  the  conflict- 
ing emotions  that  were  all  but  paralyzing  him. 
"Why,  you  can't  get  anything  for  those  da — " 
Just  in  time  he  pulled  himself  up.  At  that  moment, 
too,  he  saw  Susan's  face.   He  sat  down  limply. 

"Susan."  He  cleared  his  throat  and  began  again. 
He  tried  to  speak  clearly,  judiciously,  kindly. 
"  Susan,  I  'm  afraid  —  that  is,  I  'm  not  sure  —  Oh, 
hang  it  all,  woman"  —  he  was  on  his  feet  now  — 
"send  them,  if  you  want  to  —  but  don't  blame  me 
for  the  consequences."  And  with  a  gesture,  as  of 
flinging  the  whole  thing  far  from  him,  he  turned  his 
back  and  walked  away. 

"You  mean  —  you  don't  think  I  can  get  hardly 
anything  for  'em?"  An  extraordinarily  meek,  fear- 
ful Susan  asked  the  question. 

Only  a  shrug  of  the  back-turned  shoulders  an- 
swered her. 

"But,  Mr.  Burton,  we  —  we've  got  to  have  the 
money  for  that  operator;  an',  anyhow,  I  —  I  mean 
to  try."  With  a  quick  indrawing  of  her  breath  she 
turned  abruptly  and  left  the  studio. 

That  evening,  in  her  own  room,  Susan  pored  over 
the  two  inexpensive  magazines  that  came  to  the 
house.  She  was  searching  for  poems  and  for  ad- 
dresses. 


68  DAWN 

As  she  worked  she  began  to  look  more  cheerful. 
Both  the  magazines  published  poems,  and  if  they 
published  one  poem  they  would  another,  of  course, 
especially  if  the  poem  were  a  better  one  —  and 
Susan  could  not  help  feeling  that  they  were  better 
(those  poems  of  hers)  than  almost  any  she  saw 
there  in  print  before  her.  There  was  some  sense  to 
her  poems,  while  those  others  —  why,  some  of 
them  did  n't  mean  anything,  not  anything !  —  and 
they  did  n't  even  rhyme ! 

With  real  hope  and  courage,  therefore,  Susan  la- 
boriously copied  off  the  addresses  of  the  two  maga- 
zines, directed  two  envelopes,  and  set  herself  to 
writing  the  first  of  her  two  letters.  That  done,  she 
copied  the  letter,  word  for  word  —  except  for  the 
title  of  the  poem  submitted. 

It  was  a  long  letter.  Susan  told  first  of  Keith  and 
his  misfortune,  and  the  imperative  need  of  money 
for  the  operation.  Then  she  told  something  of  her- 
self, and  of  her  habit  of  turning  everything  into 
rhyme;  for  she  felt  it  due  to  them,  she  said,  that 
they  know  something  of  the  person  with  whom  they 
were  dealing.  She  touched  again  on  the  poverty  of 
the  household,  and  let  it  plainly  be  seen  that  she 
had  high  hopes  of  the  money  these  poems  were  go- 
ing to  bring.  She  did  not  set  a  price.  She  would 
leave  that  to  their  own  indiscretion,  she  said  in 
closing. 

It  was  midnight  before  Susan  had  copied  this  let- 
ter and  prepared  the  two  manuscripts  for  mailing. 
Then,  tired,  but  happy,  she  went  to  bed. 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  69 

It  was  the  next  day  that  the  nurse  went,  and  that 
Mrs.  Colebrook  came. 

The  doctor  said  that  Keith  might  be  dressed  now, 
any  day  —  that  he  should  be  dressed,  in  fact,  and 
begin  to  take  some  exercise.  He  had  already  sat  up 
in  a  chair  every  day  for  a  week  —  and  he  was  in  no 
further  need  of  medicine,  except  a  tonic  to  build 
him  up.  In  fact,  all  efforts  now  should  be  turned 
toward  building  him  up,  the  doctor  said.  That  was 
what  he  needed. 

All  this  the  nurse  mentioned  to  Mr.  Burton  and 
to  Susan,  as  she  was  leaving.  She  went  away  at 
two  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Colebrook  was  not  to  come 
until  half -past  five.  At  one  minute  past  two  Susan 
crept  to  the  door  of  Keith's  room  and  pushed  it 
open  softly.  The  boy,  his  face  to  the  wall,  lay  mo- 
tionless. But  he  was  not  asleep.  Susan  knew  that, 
for  she  had  heard  his  voice  not  five  minutes  before, 
bidding  the  nurse  good-bye.  For  one  brief  moment 
Susan  hesitated.  Then,  briskly,  she  stepped  into 
the  room  with  a  cheery: 

"Well,  Keith,  here  we  are,  just  ourselves  to- 
gether. The  nurse  is  gone  an'  I  am  on  —  how  do 
you  like  the  weather?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  she  said  she  was  going."  The 
boy  spoke  listlessly,  wearily,  without  turning  his 
head. 

"What  do  you  say  to  gettin'  up?" 

Keith  stirred  restlessly. 

"I  was  up  this  morning." 

"Ho!"   Susan  tossed  her  head  disdainfully.   "I 


70  DAWN 

don't  mean  that  way.  I  mean  up  —  really  up  with 
your  clothes  on." 

The  boy  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  could  n't.  I  —  I'm  too  tired." 

"Nonsense!  A  great  boy  like  you  bein'  too  tired 
to  get  up!  Why  Keith,  it'll  do  you  good.  You'll 
feel  lots  better  when  you're  up  an'  dressed  like 
folks  again." 

The  boy  gave  a  sudden  cry. 

"  That 's  just  it,  Susan.  Don't  you  see?  I  '11  never 
be  —  like  folks  again." 

"Nonsense!  Jest  as  if  a  little  thing  like  bein' 
blind  was  goin'  to  keep  you  from  bein'  like  folks 
again!"  Susan  was  speaking  very  loudly,  very 
cheerfully  —  though  with  first  one  hand,  then  the 
other,  she  was  brushing  away  the  hot  tears  that 
were  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  "Why,  Keith, 
you're  goin'  to  be  better  than  folks  —  jest  common 
folks.  You're  goin'  to  do  the  most  wonderful 
things  that  — " 

"But  I  can't  —  I'm  blind,  I  tell  you!"  cut  in  the 
boy.   "I  can't  do  —  anything,  now." 

"But  you  can,  an'  you're  goin'  to,"  insisted 
Susan  again.  "You  jest  wait  till  I  tell  you;  an'  it's 
because  you  are  blind  that  it 's  goin'  to  be  so  won- 
derful. But  you  can't  do  it  jest  lyin'  abed  there  in 
that  lazy  fashion.  Come,  I'm  goin'  to  get  your 
clothes  an'  put  'em  right  on  this  chair  here  by  the 
bed;  then  I'm  goin'  to  give  you  twenty  minutes  to 
get  into  'em.  I  shan't  give  you  but  fifteen  to- 
morrow."   Susan  was  moving  swiftly  around  the 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  71 

room  now,  opening  closet  doors  and  bureau 
drawers. 

"No,  no,  Susan,  I  can't  get  up,"  moaned  the 
boy  turning  his  face  back  to  the  wall.  "I  can't  — 
I  can't!" 

"Yes,  you  can.  Now,  listen.  They're  all  here, 
everything  you  need,  on  these  two  chairs  by  the 
bed." 

"But  how  can  I  dress  me  when  I  can't  see  a 
thing?" 

"You  can  feel,  can't  you?" 

"Y-yes.  But  feeling  isn't  seeing.  You  don't 
know." 

Susan  gave  a  sudden  laugh  —  she  would  have 
told  you  it  was  a  laugh  —  but  it  sounded  more  like 
a  sob. 

"But  I  do  know,  an'  that's  the  funny  part  of  it, 
Keith,"  she  cried.  "Listen!  What  do  you  s'pose 
your  poor  old  Susan's  been  doin'?  You'd  never 
guess  in  a  million  years,  so  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you. 
For  the  last  three  mornin's  she's  tied  up  her  eyes 
with  a  handkerchief  an'  then  dressed  herself,  jest 
to  make  sure  it  could  be  done,  you  know." 

"Susan,  did  you,  really?"  For  the  first  time  a 
faint  trace  of  interest  came  into  the  boy's  face. 

"Sure  I  did!  An'  Keith,  it  was  great  fun,  really, 
jest  to  see  how  smart  I  could  be,  doin'  it.  An'  I 
timed  myself,  too.  It  took  me  twenty-five  minutes 
the  first  time.  Dear,  dear,  but  I  was  clumsy!  But 
I  can  do  it  lots  quicker  now,  though  I  don't  believe 
T  '11  ever  do  it  as  quick  as  you  will." 


72  DAWN 

"Do  you  think  I  could  do  it,  really?'' 

"I  know  you  could." 

"I  could  try,"  faltered  Keith  dubiously. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  try,  you're  goin'  to  do  it," 
declared  Susan.  "Now,  listen.  I'm  goin'  out,  but 
in  jest  twenty  minutes  I  'm  comin'  back,  an'  I  shall 
expect  to  find  you  all  dressed.  I  —  I  shall  be 
ashamed  of  you  if  you  ain't."  And  without  another 
glance  at  the  boy,  and  before  he  could  possibly 
protest,  Susan  hurried  from  the  room. 

Her  head  was  still  high,  and  her  voice  still  deter- 
minedly clear  —  but  in  the  hall  outside  the  bed- 
room, Susan  burst  into  such  a  storm  of  sobs  that 
she  had  to  hurry  to  the  kitchen  and  shut  herself  in 
the  pantry  lest  they  be  heard. 

Later,  when  she  had  scornfully  lashed  herself 
into  calmness,  she  came  out  into  the  kitchen  and 
looked  at  the  clock. 

"An'  I've  been  in  there  five  minutes,  I'll  bet  ye, 
over  that  fool  cry  in',"  she  stormed  hotly  to  herself. 
"Great  one,  I  am,  to  take  care  of  that  boy,  if  I 
can't  control  myself  better  than  this!" 

At  the  end  of  what  she  deemed  to  be  twenty 
minutes,  and  after  a  fruitless  "puttering"  about 
the  kitchen,  Susan  marched  determinedly  upstairs 
to  Keith's  room.  At  the  door  she  did  hesitate  a 
breathless  minute,  then,  resolutely,  she  pushed  it 
open. 

The  boy,  fully  dressed,  stood  by  the  bed.  His 
face  was  alight,  almost  eager. 

"I  did  it  —  I  did  it,  Susan!    And  if  it  hasn't 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  73 

been  more  than  twenty  minutes,  I  did  it  sooner 
than  you!" 

Susan  tried  to  speak;  but  the  tears  were  again 
chasing  each  other  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  face 
was  working  with  emotion. 

"Susan!"  The  boy  put  out  his  hand  gropingly, 
turning  his  head  with  the  pitiful  uncertainty  of  the 
blind.   "Susan,  you  are  there,  are  n't  you?" 

Susan  caught  her  breath  chokingly,  and  strode 
into  the  room  with  a  brisk  clatter. 

"Here?  Sure  I'm  here  —  but  so  dumb  with 
amazement  an'  admiration  that  I  could  n't  open 
my  head  —  to  see  you  standin'  there  all  dressed 
like  that!  What  did  I  tell  you?  I  knew  you  could 
do  it.  Now,  come,  let's  go  see  dad."  She  was  at 
his  side  now,  her  arm  linked  into  his. 

But  the  boy  drew  back. 

"No,  no,  Susan,  not  there.  He  —  he  would  n't 
like  it.  Truly,  he  —  he  does  n't  want  to  see  me. 
You  know  he  —  he  does  n't  like  to  see  disagreeable 
things." 

"'Disagreeable  things,' indeed!"  exploded  Susan, 
her  features  working  again.  "Well,  I  guess  if  he 
calls  it  disagreeable  to  see  his  son  dressed  up  an' 
walkin'  around  — *' 

But  Keith  interrupted  her  once  more,  with  an 
even  stronger  protest,  and  Susan  was  forced  to 
content  herself  with  leading  her  charge  out  on  to 
the  broad  veranda  that  ran  across  the  entire  front 
of  the  house.  There  they  walked  back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth. 


74  DAWN 

She  was  glad,  afterward,  that  this  was  all  she 
did,  for  at  the  far  end  of  the  veranda  Daniel  Burton 
stepped  out  from  a  door,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
watching  them.  But  it  was  for  only  a  moment. 
And  when  she  begged  mutely  for  him  to  come  for- 
ward and  speak,  he  shook  his  head  fiercely,  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  plunged  back  into  the 
house. 

"What  was  that,  Susan?  What  was  that?"  de- 
manded the  boy. 

"Nothin',  child,  no  thin',  only  a  door  shuttin* 
somewhere,  or  a  window." 

At  that  moment  a  girl's  voice  caroled  shrilly 
from  the  street. 

"Hullo,  Keith,  how  do  you  do?  We're  awfully 
glad  to  see  you  out  again." 

The  boy  started  violently,  but  did  not  turn  his 
head  —  except  to  Susan. 

"Susan,  I  —  I'm  tired.  I  want  to  go  in  now," 
he  begged  a  little  wildly,  under  his  breath. 

"Keith,  it's  Mazie  —  Mazie  and  Dorothy,"  car- 
oled the  high-pitched  voice  again. 

But  Keith,  with  a  tug  so  imperative  that  Susan 
had  no  choice  but  to  obey,  turned  his  head  quite 
away  as  he  groped  for  the  door  to  go  in. 

In  the  hall  he  drew  a  choking  breath. 

"Susan,  I  don't  want  to  go  out  there  to  walk 
any  more  —  not  any  morel  I  don't  want  to  go  any- 
where where  anybody '11  see  me." 

"Shucks!"  Susan's  voice  was  harshly  unsteady 
again.    "See  you,  indeed!  Why,  we're  goin'  to  be 


SUSAN  TO  THE  RESCUE  75 

so  proud  of  you  we'll  want  the  whole  world  to  see 
you. 

You  jest  wait 

An'  see  the  fate 

That  I've  cut  out  for  you. 

We'll  be  so  proud 

We'll  laugh  aloud, 

An'  you'll  be  laughin',  too! 

I  made  that  up  last  night  when  I  laid  awake  thinkin' 
of  all  the  fine  things  we  was  goin'  to  have  you  do." 
But  Keith  only  shook  his  head  again  and  com- 
plained of  feeling,  oh,  so  tired.  And  Susan,  looking 
at  his  pale,  constrained  face,  did  not  quote  any 
more  poetry  to  him,  or  talk  about  the  glorious  fu- 
ture in  store  for  him.  She  led  him  to  the  easiest 
chair  in  his  room  and  made  him  as  comfortable  as 
she  could.  Then  she  went  downstairs  and  shut  her- 
self in  the  pantry  —  until  she  could  stop  her  "fool 
cry  in'  over  no  thin'." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH 

MRS.  NETTIE  COLEBROOK  came  at  half- 
past  five.  She  was  a  small,  nervous-looking 
woman  with  pale-blue  eyes  and  pale-yellow  hair. 
She  greeted  her  brother  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

"Oh,  Daniel,  Daniel,  how  can  you  stand  it  — 
how  can  you  stand  it!"  she  cried,  throwing  herself 
upon  the  man's  somewhat  unresponsive  shoulder. 

"There,  there,  Nettie,  control  yourself,  do!"  be- 
sought the  man  uncomfortably,  trying  to  withdraw 
himself  from  the  clinging  arms. 

"But  how  can  you  stand  it!  —  your  only  son  — 
blind!"  wailed  Mrs.  Colebrook,  with  a  fresh  burst 
of  sobs. 

"I  notice  some  things  have  to  be  stood,"  ob- 
served Susan  grimly.  Susan,  with  Mrs.  Colebrook's 
traveling-bag  in  her  hand,  was  waiting  with  obvi- 
ous impatience  to  escort  her  visitor  upstairs  to  her 
room. 

Susan's  terse  comment  accomplished  what  Daniel 
Burton's  admonition  had  been  quite  powerless  to 
bring  about.  Mrs.  Colebrook  stopped  sobbing  at 
once,  and  drew  herself  somewhat  haughtily  erect. 

"And,  pray,  who  is  this?"  she  demanded,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other. 

"Well,  'this'  happens  to  be  the  hired  girl,  an' 
she's  got  some  biscuits  in  the  oven,"  explained 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH    77 

Susan  crisply.  "If  you'll  be  so  good,  ma'am,  I'll 
show  you  upstairs  to  your  room." 

"Daniel!"  appealed  Mrs.  Colebrook,  plainly 
aghast. 

But  her  brother,  with  a  helpless  gesture,  had 
turned  away,  and  Susan,  bag  in  hand,  was  al- 
ready halfway  up  the  stairs.  With  heightened  color 
and  a  muttered  "Impertinence!"  Mrs.  Colebrook 
turned  and  followed  Susan  to  the  floor  above. 

A  little  way  down  the  hall  Susan  threw  open  a 
door. 

"I  swept,  but  I  did  n't  have  no  time  to  dust," 
she  announced  as  she  put  down  the  bag.  "There's 
a  duster  in  that  little  bag  there.  Don't  lock  the 
door.  Somethin'  ails  it.  If  you  do  you'll  have  to 
go  out  the  window  down  a  ladder.  There 's  towels 
in  the  top  drawer,  an'  you  '11  have  to  fill  the  pitcher 
every  day,  'cause  there's  a  crack  an'  it  leaks,  an* 
you  can't  put  in  the  water  only  to  where  the  crack 
is.  Is  there  anything  more  you  want?" 

"  Thank  you.  If  you  '11  kindly  take  me  to  Master 
Keith's  room,  that  will  be  all  that  I  require,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Colebrook  frigidly,  as  she  unpinned 
her  hat  and  laid  that  on  top  of  her  coat  on  the  bed. 

"All  right,  ma'am.  He 's  a  whole  lot  better.  He 's 
been  up  an'  dressed  to-day,  but  he's  gone  back  to 
bed  now.  His  room  is  right  down  here,  jest  across 
the  hall,"  finished  Susan,  throwing  wide  the  door. 

There  was  a  choking  cry,  a  swift  rush  of  feet, 
then  Mrs.  Colebrook,  on  her  knees,  was  sobbing  at 
the  bedside. 


78  DAWN 

"Oh,  Keithie,  Keithie,  my  poor  blind  boy!  What 
will  you  do?  How  will  you  ever  live?  Never  to  see 
again,  never  to  see  again!  Oh,  my  poor  boy,  my 
poor  blind  boy!" 

Susan,  at  the  door,  flung  both  hands  above  her 
head,  then  plunged  down  the  stairs. 

"Fool!  Fool!  Fool!"  she  snarl  d  at  the  bis- 
cuits in  the  oven.  "Don't  you  know  anything?" 
Yet  the  biscuits  in  the  oven  were  puffing  up  and 
browning  beautifully,  as  the  best  of  biscuits  should. 

When  Susan's  strident  call  for  supper  rang 
through  the  hall,  Mrs.  Colebrook  was  with  her 
brother  in  the  studio.  She  had  been  bemoaning 
and  bewailing  the  cruel  fate  that  had  overtaken 
"that  dear  boy,"  and  had  just  asked  for  the  sev- 
enth time  how  he  could  stand  it,  when  from  the  hall 
below  came: 

"Supper's  ready,  supper's  ready, 
Hurry  up  or  you'll  be  late. 
Then  you  '11  sure  be  cross  an'  heady, 
If  there's  nothin'  left  to  ate." 

"Daniel,  what  in  the  world  is  the  meaning  of 
that?  "  she  interrupted  sharply. 

"That?  Oh,  that  is  Susan's  —  er  —  supper  bell," 
shrugged  the  man,  with  a  little  uneasy  gesture. 

"You  mean  that  you've  heard  it  before?  —  that 
that  is  her  usual  method  of  summoning  you  to  your 
meals?" 

"Y-yes,  when  she's  good-natured,"  returned  the 
man,  with  a  still  more  uneasy  shifting  of  his  posi- 
tion.  "Come,  shall  we  go  down?" 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH  79 

"Daniel!  And  you  stand  it?" 

"Oh,  come,  come!  You  don't  understand  — 
conditions  here.  Besides,  I've  tried  to  stop  it." 

"Tr^dtostopit!" 

"Yes.  Oh,  well,  try  yourself,  if  you  think  it's  so 
easy.  I  give  you  my  full  and  free  permission.  Try 
it." 

"Try  it  \  I  shan't  try  anything  of  the  sort.  I  shall 
stop  it." 

"Humph!"  shrugged  the  man.  "Oh,  very  well, 
then.   Suppose  we  go  down." 

"But  what  does  that  poor  little  blind  boy  eat? 
How  can  he  eat  —  anything?" 

"Why,  I  —  I  don't  know."  The  man  gave  an 
irritably  helpless  gesture.  "The  nurse  —  she  used 
to  —  You'll  have  to  ask  Susan.   She'll  know." 

"Susan!  That  impossible  woman!  Daniel,  how 
do  you  stand  her?  " 

Daniel  Burton  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 
Then  suddenly  he  gave  a  short,  grim  laugh. 

"I  notice  there  are  some  things  that  have  to  be 
stood,"  he  observed,  so  exactly  in  imitation  of 
Susan  that  it  was  a  pity  only  Mrs.  Nettie  Cole- 
brook's  unappreciative  ears  got  the  benefit  of  it. 

In  the  dining-room  a  disapproving  Susan  stood 
by  the  table. 

"I  thought  you  was  n't  never  comin'.  The  hash 
is  gettin'  cold." 

Mrs.  Colebrook  gasped  audibly. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  murmured  Mr.  Burton  con- 
ciliatingly.  "But  we're  here  now,  Susan." 


80  DAWN 

"What  will  Master  Keith  have  for  his  supper?*' 
questioned  Mrs.  Colebrook,  lifting  her  chin  a  little. 

"He's  already  had  his  supper,  ma'am.  I  took 
it  up  myself." 

"What  was  it? "  Mrs.  Colebrook  asked  the  ques- 
tion haughtily,  imperiously. 

Susan's  eyes  grew  cold  like  steel. 

"It  was  what  he  asked  for,  ma'am, an'  he's  ate  it. 
Do  you  want  your  tea  strong  or  weak,  ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Colebrook  bit  her  lip. 

"I'll  not  take  any  tea  at  all,"  she  said  coldly. 
"And,  Susan!" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  Susan  turned,  her  hand  on  the 
doorknob. 

"Hereafter  I  will  take  up  Master  Keith's  meals 
myself.  He  is  in  my  charge  now." 

There  was  no  reply  —  in  words.  But  the  dining- 
room  door  after  Susan  shut  with  a  short,  crisp  snap. 

After  supper  Mrs.  Colebrook  went  out  into  the 
kitchen. 

"You  may  prepare  oatmeal  and  dry  toast  and  a 
glass  of  milk  for  Master  Keith  to-morrow  morning, 
Susan.  I  will  take  them  up  myself." 

"He  won't  eat  'em.  He  don't  like  'em  —  not 
none  of  them  things." 

"I  think  he  will  if  I  tell  him  to.  At  all  events, 
they  are  what  he  should  eat,  and  you  may  prepare 
them  as  I  said." 

"Very  well,  ma'am." 

Susan's  lips  came  together  in  a  thin,  white  line, 
and  Mrs.  Colebrook  left  the  kitchen. 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH  81 

Keith  did  not  eat  his  toast  and  oatmeal  the  next 
morning,  though  his  aunt  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  called  him  her  poor,  afflicted,  darling  boy,  and 
attempted  to  feed  him  herself  with  a  spoon. 

Keith  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  said  he 
did  n't  want  any  breakfast.  Whereupon  his  aunt 
sighed,  and  stroked  his  head;  and  Keith  hated  to 
have  his  head  stroked,  as  Susan  could  have  told  her. 

"Of  course,  you  don't  want  any  breakfast,  you 
poor,  sightless  lamb,"  she  moaned.  "And  I  don't 
blame  you.  Oh,  Keithie,  Keithie,  when  I  see  you 
lying  there  like  that,  with  your  poor  useless  eyes  — ! 
But  you  must  eat,  dear,  you  must  eat.  Now,  come, 
just  a  weeny,  teeny  mouthful  to  please  auntie!" 

But  Keith  turned  his  face  even  more  determinedly 
to  the  wall,  and  moved  his  limbs  under  the  bed 
clothes  in  a  motion  very  much  like  a  kick.  He  would 
have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  "weeny, 
teeny  mouthfuls,"  not  even  to  please  auntie.  And 
after  a  vain  attempt  to  remove  his  tortured  head, 
entirely  away  from  those  gently  stroking  fingers,  he 
said  he  guessed  he  would  get  up  and  be  dressed. 

"Oh,  Keithie,  are  you  well  enough,  dear?  Are 
you  sure  you  are  strong  enough?  I'm  sure  you 
must  be  ill  this  morning.  You  have  n't  eaten  a  bit 
of  breakfast.  And  if  anything  should  happen  to 
you  when  you  were  in  my  care  — " 

"Of  course  I'm  well  enough,"  insisted  the  boy 
irritably. 

"Then  I'll  get  your  clothes,  dear,  and  help  you 
dress,  if  you  will  be  careful  not  to  overdo." 


82  DAWN 

"I  don't  want  any  help." 

"Why,  Keithie,  you'll  have  to  have  some  one 
help  you.  How  do  you  suppose  your  poor  blind 
eyes  are  going  to  let  you  dress  yourself  all  alone, 
when  you  can't  see  a  thing?  Why,  dear  child,  you  '11 
have  to  have  help  now  about  everything  you  do. 
Now  I'll  get  your  clothes.  Where  are  they,  dear? 
In  this  closet?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  'em.  I  —  I've  de- 
cided I  don't  want  to  get  up,  after  all." 

"You  are  too  tired,  then?" 

"Yes,  I'm  too  tired."  And  Keith,  with  another 
spasmodic  jerk  under  the  bedclothes,  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall  again. 

"All  right,  dear,  you  shan't.  That's  the  better 
way,  I  think  myself,"  sighed  his  aunt.  "I  would  n't 
have  you  overtax  yourself  for  the  world.  Now  is  n't 
there  anything,  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

And  Keith  said  no,  not  a  thing,  not  a  single  thing. 
And  his  face  was  still  to  the  wall. 

"Then  if  you're  all  right,  absolutely  all  right, 
I'll  go  out  to  walk  and  get  a  little  fresh  air.  Now 
don't  move.  Don't  stir.  Try  to  go  to  sleep  if  you 
can.  And  if  you  want  anything,  just  ring.  I  '11  put 
this  little  bell  right  by  your  hand  on  the  bed;  and 
you  must  ring  if  you  want  anything,  anything. 
Then  Susan  will  come  and  get  it  for  you.  There, 
the  bell's  right  here.  See?  Oh,  no,  no,  you  can't 
see!"  she  broke  off  suddenly,  with  a  wailing  sob. 
"Why  will  I  keep  talking  to  you  as  if  you  could?" 

"Well,  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  me  as  if  I  could 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH  83 

see,"  stormed  Keith  passionately,  sitting  upright 
in  bed  and  flinging  out  his  arms.  "I  tell  you  I  don't 
want  to  be  different!  It's  because  I  am  different 
that  I  am  so  — " 

But  his  aunt,  aghast,  interrupted  him,  and  pushed 
him  back. 

"Oh,  Keithie,  darling,  lie  down!  You  mustn't 
thrash  yourself  around  like  that,"  she  remon- 
strated. "Why,  you'll  make  yourself  ill.  There, 
that's  better.  Now  go  to  sleep.  I 'm  going  out  be- 
fore you  can  talk  any  more,  and  get  yourself  all 
worked  up  again,"  she  finished,  hurrying  out  of  the 
room  with  the  breakfast  tray. 

A  little  later  in  the  kitchen  she  faced  Susan  a 
bit  haughtily. 

"Master  Keith  is  going  to  sleep,"  she  said,  put- 
ting down  the  breakfast  tray.  "I  have  left  a  bell 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  and  he  will  call  you  if  he 
wants  anything.  I  am  going  out  to  get  a  little  air." 

"All  right,  ma'am."  Susan  kept  right  on  with 
the  dish  she  was  drying. 

"You  are  sure  you  can  hear  the  bell?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  hearin'  ain't  repaired  in  the  least, 
ma'am."  Susan  turned  her  back  and  picked  up 
another  dish.  Plainly,  for  Susan,  the  matter  was 
closed. 

Mrs.  Colebrook,  after  a  vexed  biting  of  her  lip 
and  a  frowning  glance  toward  Susan's  substantial 
back,  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  left  the  kitchen. 
A  minute  later,  still  hatless,  she  crossed  the  yard 
and  entered  the  McGuires'  side  door. 


84  DAWN 

"Take  the  air,  indeed !"  muttered  Susan,  watch- 
ing from  the  kitchen  window.  "A  whole  lot  of 
fresh  air  she'll  get  in  Mis'  McGuire's  kitchen!" 

With  another  glance  to  make  sure  that  Mrs. 
Nettie  Colebrook  was  safely  behind  the  McGuires' 
closed  door,  Susan  crossed  the  kitchen  and  lifted 
the  napkin  of  the  breakfast  tray. 

"Humph!"  she  grunted  angrily,  surveying  the 
almost  untouched  breakfast.  "I  thought  as  much! 
But  I  was  ready  for  you,  my  lady.  Toast  an' 
oatmeal,  indeed!"  With  another  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  McGuire  side  door  Susan  strode 
to  the  stove  and  took  from  the  oven  a  plate  of 
crisply  browned  hash  and  a  hot  corn  muffin.  Two 
minutes  later,  with  a  wonderfully  appetizing- 
looking  tray,  she  tapped  at  Keith's  door  and  en- 
tered the  room. 

"Here's  your  breakfast,  boy,"  she  announced 
cheerily. 

"I  didn't  want  any  breakfast,"  came  crossly 
from  the  bed. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  want  that  breakfast," 
scoffed  Susan  airily;  "but  you  just  look  an'  see 
what  I've  brought  you!" 

Look  and  see!  Susan's  dismayed  face  showed 
that  she  fully  realized  what  she  had  said,  and  that 
she  dreaded  beyond  words  its  effect  on  the  blind 
boy  in  the  bed. 

She  hesitated,  and  almost  dropped  the  tray  in 
her  consternation.  But  the  boy  turned  with  a 
sudden  eagerness  that  put  to  rout  her  dismay, 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH    85 

and  sent  a  glow  of  dazed  wonder  to  her  face  in- 
stead. 

"What  have  you  got?  Let  me  see."  He  was  sit- 
ting up  now.  "Hash  — and  —  johnny-cake!"  he 
crowed,  as  she  set  the  tray  before  him,  and  he 
dropped  his  fingers  lightly  on  the  contents  of  the 
tray.  "And  don't  they  smell  good!  I  don't  know 
—  I  guess  I  am  hungry,  after  all." 

"Of  course  you're  hungry!"  Susan's  voice  was 
harsh,  and  she  was  fiercely  brushing  back  the  tears. 
"Now,  eat  it  quick,  or  I'll  be  sick!  Jest  think 
what '11  happen  to  Susan  if  that  blessed  aunt  of 
yours  comes  an'  finds  me  feedin'  you  red-flannel 
hash  an'  johnny-cake!  Now  I'll  be  up  in  ten  min- 
utes for  the  tray.  See  that  you  eat  it  up  —  every 
scrap,"  she  admonished  him,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

Susan  had  found  by  experience  that  Keith  ate 
much  better  when  alone.  She  was  not  surprised, 
therefore,  though  she  was  very  much  pleased  —  at 
sight  of  the  empty  plates  awaiting  her  when  she 
went  up  for  the  tray  at  the  end  of  the  ten  minutes. 

"An'  now  what  do  you  say  to  gettin'  up?"  she 
suggested  cheerily,  picking  up  the  tray  from  the 
bed  and  setting  it  on  the  table. 

"Can  I  dress  myself?" 

"Of  course  you  can!  What '11  you  bet  you  won't 
do  it  five  minutes  quicker  this  time,  too?  I'll  get 
your  clothes." 

Halfway  back  across  the  room,  clothes  in  hand, 
she  was  brought  to  a  sudden  halt  by  a  peremptory : 


86  DAWN 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  It 
was  Mrs.  Nettie  Colebrook  in  the  doorway. 

"I'm  gettin'  Keith's  clothes.  He's  goin'  to  get 
up." 

"But  Master  Keith  said  he  did  not  wish  to  get 
up." 

"Changed  his  mind,  maybe."  The  terseness  of 
Susan's  reply  and  the  expression  on  her  face  showed 
that  the  emphasis  on  the  "Master"  was  not  lost 
upon  her. 

"Very  well,  then,  that  will  do.  You  may  go. 
I  will  help  him  dress." 

"I  don't  want  any  help,"  declared  Keith. 

"Why,  Keithie,  darling,  of  course  you  want  help! 
You  forget,  dear,  you  can't  see  now,  and  — " 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  forget,"  cut  in  Keith  bitterly. 
"You  don't  let  me  forget  a  minute  —  not  a  minute. 
I  don't  want  to  get  up  now,  anyhow.  What's  the 
use  of  gettin'  up?  I  can't  do  anything!"  And  he 
fell  back  to  his  old  position,  with  his  face  to  the 
wall. 

"There,  there,  dear,  you  are  ill  and  overwrought," 
cried  Mrs.  Colebrook,  hastening  to  the  bedside. 
"It  is  just  as  I  said,  you  are  not  fit  to  get  up." 
Then,  to  Susan,  sharply:  "You  may  put  Master 
Keith's  clothes  back  in  the  closet.  He  will  not  need 
them  to-day." 

"No,  ma'am,  I  don't  think  he  will  need  them  — 
now."  Susan's  eyes  flashed  ominously.  But  she 
hung  the  clothes  back  in  the  closet,  picked  up  the 
tray,  and  left  the  room. 


AUNT  NETTIE  MEETS  HER  MATCH    87 

Susan's  eyes  flashed  ominously,  indeed,  all  the 
rest  of  the  morning,  while  she  was  about  her  work; 
and  at  noon,  when  she  gave  the  call  to  dinner,  there 
was  a  curious  metallic  incisiveness  in  her  voice, 
which  made  the  call  more  strident  than  usual. 

It  was  when  Mrs.  Colebrook  went  into  the 
kitchen  after  dinner  for  Keith's  tray  that  she  said 
coldly  to  Susan: 

"Susan,  I  don't  like  that  absurd  doggerel  of 
yours." 

"Doggerel?"  Plainly  Susan  was  genuinely  igno- 
rant of  what  she  meant. 

"Yes,  that  extraordinary  dinner  call  of  yours. 
As  I  said  before,  I  don't  like  it." 

There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence.  The  first 
angry  flash  in  Susan's  eyes  was  followed  by  a  de- 
mure smile. 

"Don't  you?  Why,  I  thought  it  was  real  cute, 
now." 

"  Well,  I  don't.  You  '11  kindly  not  use  it  any  more, 
Susan,"  replied  Mrs.  Colebrook,  with  dignity. 

Once  again  there  was  the  briefest  of  silences,  then 
quietly  came  Susan's  answer: 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not,  ma'am.  I  won't  —  when 
I  work  for  you.  There,  Mis'  Colebrook,  here's  your 
tray  all  ready." 

And  Mrs.  Colebrook,  without  knowing  exactly 
how  it  happened,  found  herself  out  in  the  hall  with 
the  tray  in  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUSAN  SPEAKS  HER  MIND 

HOW'S  Keith?" 
It  was  Monday  morning,  and  as  usual  Mrs. 
McGuire,  seeing  Susan  in  the  clothes-yard,  had 
come  out,  ostensibly  to  hang  out  her  own  clothes, 
in  reality  to  visit  with  Susan  while  she  was  hanging 
out  hers. 

"About  as  usual."  Susan  snapped  out  the  words 
and  a  pillow-case  with  equal  vehemence. 

"Is  he  up  an'  dressed?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  hain't  seen  him  this  mornin'  — 
but  it's  safe  to  say  he  ain't." 

"But  I  thought  he  was  well  enough  to  be  up  an' 
dressed  right  along  now." 

"He  is  well  enough  —  or,  rather  he  was."  Susan 
snapped  open  another  pillow-case  and  hung  it  on 
the  line  with  spiteful  jabs  of  two  clothespins. 

"Why,  Susan,  is  he  worse?  You  did  n't  say  he 
was  any  worse.  You  said  he  was  about  as  usual." 

"Well,  so  he  is.  That's  about  as  usual.  Look 
a-here,  Mis'  McGuire,"  flared  Susan,  turning  with 
fierce  suddenness,  "would  n't  you  be  worse  if  you 
was  n't  allowed  to  do  as  much  as  lift  your  own 
hand  to  your  own  head?" 

"WTiy,  Susan,  what  do  you  mean?  What  are 
you  talkin'  about?" 

"I'm  talkin'  about  Keith  Burton  an'  Mis'  Nettie 


SUSAN  SPEAKS  HER  MIND  89 

Colebrook.  I  've  got  to  talk  about  'em  to  somebody. 
I  'm  that  full  I  shall  sunburst  if  I  don't.  She  won't 
let  him  do  a  thing  for  himself  —  not  a  thing,  that 
woman  won't!" 

"But  how  can  he  do  anything  for  himself,  with 
his  poor  sightless  eyes?"  demanded  Mrs.  McGuire. 
"  I  don't  think  I  should  complain,  Susan  Betts,  be- 
cause that  poor  boy 's  got  somebody  at  last  to  take 
proper  care  of  him." 

"But  it  ain't  takin'  proper  care  of  him,  not  to 
let  him  do  things  for  himself,"  stormed  Susan 
hotly.  "  How 's  he  ever  goin'  to  'mount  to  anything 
—  that's  what  I  want  to  know  —  if  he  don't  get  a 
chance  to  begin  to  'mount?  All  them  fellers  —  them 
fellers  that  was  blind  an'  wrote  books  an'  give  lec- 
turin's  an'  made  things  —  perfectly  wonderful 
things  with  their  hands  —  how  much  do  you  s'pose 
they  would  have  done  if  they'd  had  a  woman  'round 
who  said,  'Here,  let  me  do  it;  oh,  you  must  n't  do 
that,  Keithie,  dear!'  every  time  they  lifted  a  hand 
to  brush  away  a  hair  that  was  ticklin'  their  nose?  " 

"Oh,  Susan!" 

"Well,  it's  so.  Look  a-here,  listen!"  Susan 
dropped  all  pretense  of  work  now,  and  came  close 
to  the  fence.  She  was  obviously  very  much  in 
earnest.  "That  boy  hain't  been  dressed  but  twice 
since  that  woman  came  a  week  ago.  She  won't  let 
him  dress  himself  alone  an'  now  he  don't  want  to 
be  dressed.  Says  he's  too  tired.  An'  she  says,  'Of 
course,  you're  too  tired,  Keithie,  dear!'  An'  there 
he  lies,  day  in  an'  day  out,  with  his  poor  sightless 


90  DAWN 

eyes  turned  to  the  wall.  He  won't  eat  a  thing 
hardly,  except  what  I  snuggle  up  when  she's  out 
airin'  herself.  He  ain't  keen  on  bein'  fed  with  a 
spoon  like  a  baby.  No  boy  with  any  spunk  would 
be." 

"But  can  he  feed  himself?" 

"Of  course  he  can  —  if  he  gets  a  chance!  But 
that  ain't  all.  He  don't  want  to  be  told  all  the  time 
that  he 's  different  from  other  folks.  He  can't  forget 
that  he's  blind,  of  course,  but  he  wants  you  to  act 
as  if  you  forgot  it.  I  know.  I  've  seen  him.  But  she 
don't  forget  it  a  minute  —  not  a  minute.  She 's 
always  cryin'  an'  wringin'  her  hands,  an'  sighin', 
'Oh,  Keithie,  Keithie,  my  poor  boy,  my  poor  blind 
boy!'  till  it's  enough  to  make  a  saint  say,  'Gosh!'  " 

"Well,  that's  only  showin'  sympathy,  Susan," 
defended  Mrs.  McGuire.  "I'm  sure  she  ought  not 
to  be  blamed  for  that." 

"He  don't  want  sympathy  —  or,  if  he  does,  he 
had  n't  ought  to  have  it." 

"Why,  Susan  Betts,  I'm  ashamed  of  you  — 
grudgin'  that  poor  blind  boy  the  comfort  of  a  little 
sympathy!  My  John  said  yesterday  — " 

"'T  ain't  sympathy  he  needs.  Sympathy's  a 
nice,  soft  little  paw  that  pats  him  to  sleep.  What  he 
needs  is  a  good  sharp  scratch  that  will  make  him 
get  up  an'  do  somethin'." 

"Susan,  how  can  you  talk  like  that?" 

"'Cause  somebody's  got  to."  Susan's  voice  was 
shaking  now.  Her  hands  were  clenched  so  tightly 
on  the  fence  pickets  that  the  knuckles  showed  white 


SUSAN  SPEAKS  HER  MIND  91 

with  the  strain.  "Mis'  McGuire,  there's  a  chance, 
maybe,  that  that  boy  can  see.  There's  somethin' 
they  can  do  to  his  eyes,  if  he  gets  strong  enough 
to  have  it  done." 

"Really?  To  see  again?" 

"Maybe.  There's  a  chance.  They  ain't  sure. 
But  they  can't  even  try  till  he  gets  well  an'  strong. 
An'  how's  he  goin'  to  get  well  an'  strong  lyin'  on 
that  bed,  face  to  the  wall?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know!" 

"Hm-m,  I  see,"  nodded  Mrs.  McGuire  soberly. 
Then,  with  a  sidewise  glance  into  Susan's  face,  she 
added:  "But  ain't  that  likely  to  cost  —  some 
money?" 

"Yes,  'tis."  Susan  went  back  to  her  work  ab- 
ruptly. With  stern  efficiency  she  shook  out  a  heavy 
sheet  and  hung  it  up.  Stooping,  she  picked  up 
another  one.  But  she  did  not  shake  out  this.  With 
the  same  curious  abruptness  that  had  characterized 
her  movements  a  few  moments  before,  she  dropped 
the  sheet  back  into  the  basket  and  came  close  to 
the  fence  again.  "Mis'  McGuire,  won't  you  please 
let  me  take  a  copy  of  them  two  women's  magazines 
that  you  take?  That  is,  they  —  they  do  print 
poetry,  don't  they?" 

"Why,  y-yes,  Susan,  I  guess  they  do.  Thinkin' 
of  sendin'  'em  some  of  yours?"  The  question  was 
asked  in  a  derision  that  was  entirely  lost  on 
Susan. 

"Yes,  to  get  some  money."  It  was  the  breath- 
less, palpitating  Susan  that  Daniel  Burton  had 


m  DAWN 

seen  a  week  ago,  and  like  Daniel  Burton  on  that 
occasion,  Mrs.  McGuire  went  down  now  in  defeat 
before  it. 

"To  —  to  get  some  money?"  she  stammered. 

"Yes  —  for  Keith's  eyes,  you  know,"  panted 
Susan.  "An'  when  I  sell  these,  I'm  goin'  to  write 
more  —  lots  more.  Only  I  've  got  to  find  a  place, 
first,  of  course,  to  sell  'em.  An'  I  did  send  'em  off 
last  week.  But  they  was  jest  cheap  magazines;  an' 
they  sent  a  letter  all  printed  sayin'  as  how  they 
regretted  very  much  they  could  n't  accept  'em. 
Like  enough  they  did  n't  have  money  enough  to 
pay  much  for  'em,  anyway;  but  of  course  they 
did  n't  say  that  right  out  in  so  many  words.  But, 
as  I  said,  they  was  n't  anything  but  cheap  maga- 
zines, anyway.  That's  why  I  want  yours,  jest  to 
get  the  addressin's  of,  I  mean.  They're  first-class 
magazines,  an'  they'll  pay  me  a  good  price,  I'm 
sure.  They'll  have  to,  to  get  'em!  Why,  Mis' 
McGuire,  I  've  got  to  have  the  money.  There  ain't 
nobody  but  me  to  get  it.  An'  you  don't  s'pose 
we're  goin'  to  let  that  boy  stay  blind  all  his  life, 
do  you,  jest  for  the  want  of  a  little  money?" 

"'A  little  money'!  It'll  cost  a  lot  of  money,  an' 
you  know  it,  Susan  Betts,"  cried  Mrs.  McGuire, 
stirred  into  sudden  speech.  "An'  the  idea  of  your 
tryin'  to  earn  it  writin'  poetry.  For  that  matter, 
the  idea  of  your  earnin'  it,  anyway,  even  if  you 
took  your  wages." 

"Oh,  I'd  take  my  wages  in  a  minute,  if — " 
Susan  stopped  short.  Her  face  had  grown  suddenly 


SUSAN  SPEAKS  HER  MIND  93 

red.    "That  is,  I  —  I  think  I'd  rather  take  the 
poetry  money,  anyway,"  she  finished  lamely. 

But  Mrs.  McGuire  was  not  to  be  so  easily  de- 
ceived. 

"Poetry  money,  indeed!"  she  scoffed  sternly. 
"Susan  Betts,  do  you  know  what  I  believe?  I 
believe  you  don't  get  any  wages.  I  don't  believe 
that  man  pays  you  a  red  cent  from  one  week's  end 
to  the  other.  Now  does  he?  You  don't  dare  to 
answer!" 

Susan  drew  herself  up  haughtily.  But  her  face 
was  still  very  red. 

"Certainly  I  dare  to  answer,  Mis'  McGuire,  but 
i  don't  care  to.  What  Mr.  Burton  pays  me  dis- 
cerns him  an'  me  an'  I  don't  care  to  discourse  it  in 
public.  If  you'll  kindly  lend  me  them  magazines 
I  asked  you  for  a  minute  ago,  I'll  be  very  much 
obliged,  an'  I'll  try  to  retaliate  in  the  same  way 
for  you  some  time,  if  I  have  anything  you  want." 

"Oh,  good  Ian',  Susan  Betts,  if  you  ain't  the 
beat  of  'em!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  McGuire.  "I'd  like 
to  shake  you  —  though  you  don't  deserve  a  shakin', 
1 11  admit.  You  deserve  —  well,  never  mind.  I  '11 
get  the  magazines  right  away.  That 's  the  most 
I  can  do  for  you,  I  s'pose,"  she  flung  over  her 
shoulder,  as  she  hurried  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 
AND  NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS 

MRS.  COLEBROOK  had  been  a  member  of 
the  Burton  household  a  day  less  than  two 
weeks  when  she  confronted  her  brother  in  the  studio 
with  this  terse  statement: 

"Daniel,  either  Susan  or  I  leave  this  house  to- 
morrow morning.  You  can  choose  between  us." 

"Nonsense,  Nettie,  don't  be  a  fool,"  frowned  the 
man.  "You  know  very  well  that  we  need  both  you 
and  Susan.  Susan's  a  trial,  I'll  admit,  in  a  good 
many  ways;  but  I'll  wager  you'd  find  it  more  of  a 
trial  to  get  along  without  her,  and  try  to  do  her 
work  and  yours,  too." 

"Nobody  thought  of  getting  along  without 
somebody"  returned  Mrs.  Colebrook,  with  some 
dignity.  "I  merely  am  asking  you  to  dismiss  Susan 
and  hire  somebody  else  —  that  is,  of  course,  if  you 
wish  me  to  stay.   Change  maids,  that's  all." 

The  man  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"All,  indeed!  Very  simple,  the  way  you  put  it. 
But  —  see  here,  Nettie,  this  thing  you  ask  is  utterly 
out  of  the  question.  You  don't  understand  matters 
at  all." 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  intend  to  dismiss 
Susan?" 

"Yes,  if  you  will  have  it  put  that  way  —  just 
that." 


NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS  95 

"Very  well.  Since  that  is  your  decision  I  shall 
have  to  govern  myself  accordingly,  of  course.  I  will 
see  you  in  the  morning  to  say  good-bye."  And  she 
turned  coldly  away. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

'*  Why,  that  I  am  going  home,  of  course  —  since 
you  think  more  of  having  that  impossible,  out- 
rageously impertinent  servant  girl  here  than  you 
do  me."  Mrs.  Colebrook  was  nearing  the  door  now. 

"Shucks!  You  know  better  than  that!  Come, 
come,  if  you're  having  any  trouble  with  Susan, 
settle  it  with  the  girl  herself,  won't  you?  Don't 
come  to  me  with  it.  You  know  how  I  dislike  any- 
thing like  this." 

At  the  door  Mrs.  Colebrook  turned  back  sud- 
denly with  aggressive  determination. 

"Yes,  I  do  know.  You  dislike  anything  that's 
disagreeable.  You  always  have,  from  the  time 
when  you  used  to  run  upstairs  to  the  attic  and  let 
us  make  all  the  explanations  to  pa  and  ma  when 
something  got  lost  or  broken.  But,  see  here,  Daniel 
Burton,  you've  got  to  pay  attention  to  this.  It's 
your  son,  and  your  house,  and  your  maid.  And 
you  shall  listen  to  me." 

"Well,  well,  all  right,  go  ahead,"  sighed  the  man 
despairingly,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair. 
"What  is  the  trouble?  What  is  it  that  Susan  does 
that  annoys  you  so?"» 

"What  does  she  do?  What  does  n't  she  do?"  re- 
torted Mrs.  Colebrook,  dropping  herself  wearily 
into  a  chair  facing  her  brother.  "  In  the  first  place, 


96  DAWN 

she's  the  most  wretchedly  impertinent  creature  I 
ever  dreamed  of.    It's  always  *  Keith'  instead  of 

*  Master  Keith,'  and  I  expect  every  day  it'll  be 

*  Daniel'  and  'Nettie'  for  you  and  me.  She  shows 
no  sort  of  respect  or  deference  in  her  manner  or 
language,  and  —  well,  what  are  you  looking  like 
that  for?  "  she  interrupted  herself  aggrievedly. 

"I  was  only  thinking  —  or  rather  I  was  trying 
to  think  of  Susan  —  and  deference,"  murmured  the 
man  dryly. 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  it,"  Mrs.  Colebrook  re- 
proved him  severely.  "You're  laughing.  You've 
always  laughed,  I  suspect,  at  her  outrageous  be- 
havior, and  that 's  why  she 's  so  impossible  in  every 
way.  Why,  Daniel  Burton,  I  've  actually  heard  her 
refuse  —  refuse  to  serve  you  with  something  to  eat 
that  you'd  ordered." 

"Oh,  well,  well,  what  if  she  has?  Very  likely 
there  was  something  we  had  to  eat  up  instead,  to 
keep  it  from  spoiling.  Susan  is  very  economical, 
Nettie." 

"I  dare  say  —  at  times,  when  it  suits  her  to  be 
so,  especially  if  she  can  assert  her  authority  over 
you.  Why,  Daniel,  she's  a  perfect  tyrant  to  you, 
and  you  know  it.  She  not  only  tells  you  what  to  eat, 
but  what  to  wear,  and  when  to  wear  it  —  your 
socks,  your  underclothes.  Why,  Daniel,  she  actu- 
ally bosses  you!" 

"Yes,  yes;  well,  never  mind,"  shrugged  the  man, 
a  bit  irritably.  "We're  talking  about  how  she  an- 
noys you,  not  me,  remember." 


NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS  97 

"Well,  don't  you  suppose  it  annoys  me  to  see  my 
own  brother  so  completely  under  the  sway  of  this 
serving-maid?  And  such  a  maid!  Daniel,  will  you 
tell  me  where  she  gets  those  long  words  of  hers 
that  she  mixes  up  so  absurdly?" 

Daniel  Burton  laughed. 

"Susan  lived  with  Professor  Hinkley  for  ten 
years  before  she  came  to  me.  The  Hinkleys  never 
used  words  of  one  or  two  syllables  when  they  could 
find  one  of  five  or  six  that  would  do  just  as  well. 
Susan  loves  long  words." 

"So  I  should  judge.  And  those  ridiculous  rhymes 
of  hers  —  did  she  learn  those,  also,  from  Professor 
Hinkley?"  queried  Mrs.  Colebrook.  "And  as  for 
that  atrocious  dinner-call  of  hers,  it's  a  disgrace  to 
any  family  —  a  positive  disgrace!" 

"Well,  well,  why  don't  you  stop  her  doing  it, 
then?"  demanded  Daniel  Burton,  still  more  irri- 
tably.   "Go  to  her,  not  me.   Tell  her  not  to." 

"I  have." 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  fraught  with  mean- 
ing that  the  man  looked  up  sharply. 

"Well?" 

"  She  said  she  would  n't  do  it  —  when  she  worked 
for  me." 

Daniel  Burton  gave  a  sudden  chuckle. 

"I  can  imagine  just  how  she'd  say  that,"  he  mur- 
mured appreciatively. 

"Daniel  Burton,  are  you  actually  going  to  abet 
that  girl  in  her  wretched  impertinence?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Colebrook  angrily.  "I  tell  you  I  will  not  stand 


98  DAWN 

it!  Something  has  got  to  be  done.  Why,  she  even 
tries  to  interfere  with  the  way  I  take  care  of  your 
son  —  presumes  to  give  me  counsel  and  advice  on 
the  subject,  if  you  please.  Dares  to  criticize  me  — 
me!  Daniel  Burton,  I  tell  you  I  will  not  stand  it. 
You  must  give  that  woman  her  walking  papers. 
Why,  Daniel,  I  shall  begin  to  think  she  has  hypno- 
tized you  —  that  you're  actually  afraid  of  her!" 

Was  it  the  scorn  in  her  voice?  Or  was  it  that  Dan- 
iel Burton's  endurance  had  snapped  at  this  last 
straw?  Whatever  it  was,  the  man  leaped  to  his  feet, 
threw  back  his  shoulders,  and  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets. 

"Nettie,  look  here.  Once  for  all  let  us  settle  this 
matter.  I  tell  you  I  cannot  dismiss  Susan;  and  I 
mean  what  I  say  when  I  use  the  words  'can  not/ 
I  literally  can  not.  To  begin  with,  she's  the  kindest- 
hearted  creature  in  the  world,  and  she's  been  de- 
votion itself  all  these  years  since  —  since  Keith  and 
I  have  been  alone.  But  even  if  I  could  set  that 
aside,  there 's  something  else  I  can't  overlook.  I  — 
I  owe  Susan  considerable  money." 

"You  owe  her  —  money  ?" 

"Yes,  her  wages.  She  has  not  had  them  for  some 
time.  I  must  owe  her  something  like  fifty  or  sixty 
dollars.  You  see,  we  —  we  have  had  some  very 
unusual  and  very  heavy  expenses,  and  I  have  over- 
drawn my  annuity  —  borrowed  on  it.  Susan  knew 
this  and  insisted  on  my  letting  her  wages  go  on,  for 
the  present.  More  than  that,  she  has  refused  a  bet- 
ter position  with  higher  wages  —  I  know  that.  The 


NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS  99 

pictures  I  had  hoped  to  sell  — "  He  stopped,  tried 
to  go  on,  failed  obviously  to  control  his  voice;  then 
turned  away  with  a  gesture  more  eloquent  than  any 
words  could  have  been. 

Mrs.  Colebrook  stared,  frowned,  and  bit  her  lip. 
Nervously  she  tapped  her  foot  on  the  floor  as  she 
watched  with  annoyed  eyes  her  brother  tramping 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  long,  narrow  room. 
Then  suddenly  her  face  cleared. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  easily  remedied,  after  all."  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Al- 
most immediately  she  was  back  —  a  roll  of  bills  in 
her  hand.  "There,  I  thought  I  had  enough  money 
to  do  it,"  she  announced  briskly  as  she  came  in. 
"Now,  Daniel,  I'll  pay  Susan  her  back  wages." 

"Indeed  you  will  not!"  The  man  wheeled 
sharply,  an  angry  red  staining  his  cheeks. 

"Oh,  but  Daniel,  don't  you  see?  —  that '11  sim- 
plify everything.  She'll  be  working  for  me,  then, 
and  I—" 

"But  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  — "  interrupted  the 
man,  then  stopped  short.  Susan  herself  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"  I  guess  likely  you  was  talkin'  so  loud  you  did  n't 
hear  me  call  you  to  dinner,"  she  was  saying.  "I've 
called  you  two  times  already.  If  you  want  any- 
thing fit  to  eat  you'd  better  come  quick.  It  ain't 
gettin'  any  fitter,  waitin'." 

"Susan!"  Before  Susan  could  turn  away,  Mrs. 
Colebrook  detained  her  peremptorily.  "Mr.  Burton 
tells  me  that  he  owes  you  for  past  wages.  Now  — " 


100  DAWN 

"Nettie!"  warned  the  man  sharply. 

But  with  a  blithe  "Nonsense,  Daniel,  let  me  man- 
age this!"  Mrs.  Colebrook  turned  again  to  Susan. 
The  man,  not  unlike  the  little  Daniel  of  long  ago 
who  fled  to  the  attic,  shrugged  his  shoulders  with 
a  gesture  of  utter  irresponsibility,  turned  his  back 
and  walked  to  the  farther  side  of  the  room. 

"Susan,"  began  Mrs.  Colebrook  again,  still 
blithely,  but  with  just  a  shade  of  haughtiness,  "my 
brother  tells  me  your  wages  are  past  due;  that  he 
owes  you  at  least  fifty  dollars.  Now  I'm  going  to 
pay  them  for  him,  Susan.  In  fact,  I  'm  going  to  pay 
you  sixty  dollars,  so  as  to  be  sure  to  cover  it.  Will 
that  be  quite  satisfactory?" 

Susan  stared  frankly. 

"You  mean  me  —  take  money  from  you,  ma'am, 
—  to  pay  my  back  wages?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"But  — "  Susan  paused  and  threw  a  quick  glance 
toward  the  broad  back  of  the  man  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  Then  she  turned  resolutely  to  Mrs.  Cole- 
brook, her  chin  a  little  higher  than  usual.  "Oh, 
no,  thank  you.  I  ain't  needin'  the  money,  Mis' 
Colebrook,  an'  I  'd  ruther  wait  for  Mr.  Burton,  any- 
way," she  finished  cheerfully,  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"Nonsense,  Susan,  of  course  you  need  the  money. 
Everybody  can  make  use  of  a  little  money,  I  guess. 
Surely,  there's  something  you  want." 

With  her  hand  almost  on  the  doorknob  Susan 
suddenly  whisked  about,  her  face  alight. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  forgot,  Mis'  Colebrook,"  she 


NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS    101 

cried  eagerly.  "There  is  somethin'  I  want;  an'  I'll 
take  it,  please,  an'  thank  you  kindly." 

"There,  that's  better,"  nodded  Mrs.  Colebrook. 
"And  I've  got  it  right  here,  so  you  see  you  don't 
have  to  wait,  even  a  minute,"  she  smiled,  holding 
out  the  roll  of  bills. 

Still  with  the  eager  light  on  her  face,  Susan 
reached  for  the  money. 

"Thank  you,  oh,  thank  you!  An'  it  will  go  quite 
a  ways,  won't  it?  —  for  Keith,  I  mean.  The — " 
But  with  sudden  sharpness  Mrs.  Colebrook  inter- 
rupted her. 

"  Susan,  how  many  times  have  I  told  you  to  speak 
of  my  nephew  as  'Master  Keith'?  Furthermore,  I 
shall  have  to  remind  you  once  more  that  you  are 
trying  to  interfere  altogether  too  much  in  his  care. 
In  fact,  Susan,  I  may  as  well  speak  plainly.  For  some 
time  past  you  have  failed  to  give  satisfaction.  You 
are  paid  in  full  now,  I  believe,  with  some  to  spare, 
perhaps.  You  may  work  the  week  out.  After  that 
we  shall  no  longer  require  your  services." 

The  man  at  the  end  of  the  room  wheeled  sharply 
and  half  started  to  come  forward.  Then,  with  his 
habitual  helpless  gesture,  he  turned  back  to  his  old 
position. 

Susan,  her  face  eloquent  with  amazed  unbelief, 
turned  from  one  to  the  other. 

"You  mean  —  you  don't  mean  —  Mis'  Cole- 
brook, be  you  tryin'  to  —  dismissal  me?" 

Mrs.  Colebrook  flushed  and  bit  her  Up. 

"I  am  dismissing  you  —  yes." 


102  DAWN 

Once  more  Susan,  in  dazed  unbelief,  looked  from 
one  to  the  other.  Her  eyes  dwelt  longest  on  the  fig- 
ure of  the  man  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"Mr.  Burton,  do  you  want  me  to  go?"  she  asked 
at  last. 

The  man  turned  irritably,  with  a  shrug,  and  a 
swift  outflinging  of  his  hands. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  want  you  to  go,  Susan.  But 
what  can  I  do?  I  have  no  money  to  pay  you,  as 
you  know  very  well.  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you 
—  of  course  —  I  should  advise  you  to  go."  And 
he  turned  away  again. 

Susan's  face  cleared. 

"Pooh!  Oh,  that's  all  right  then,"  she  answered 
pleasantly.  "Mis'  Colebrook,  I'm  sorry  to  be 
troublin'  you,  but  I  shall  have  to  give  back  that 
'ere  notice.  I  ain't  goin'." 

Once  again  Mrs.  Colebrook  flushed  and  bit  her 

up. 

"That  will  do,  Susan.  You  forget.  You're  not 
working  for  Mr.  Burton  now.  You're  working  for 
me." 

"For  you?" 

"Certainly.  Did  n't  I  just  pay  you  your  wages 
for  some  weeks  past?" 

Susan's  tight  clutch  on  the  roll  of  bills  loosened 
so  abruptly  that  the  money  fell  to  the  floor.  But  at 
once  Susan  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  The  next 
moment  she  had  crossed  the  room  and  thrust  the 
money  into  Mrs.  Colebrook's  astonished  fingers. 

"I  don't  want  your  money,  Mis'  Colebrook  — 


NETTIE  COLEBROOK  SPEAKS  HERS    103 

not  on  them  terms,  even  for  Keith.  I  know  I  hain't 
earned  any  the  other  way,  yet,  but  I  hain't  tried 
all  the  magazines.  There's  more  —  lots  more." 
Her  voice  faltered,  and  almost  broke.  "I'll  do  it 
yet  some  way,  you  see  if  I  don't.  But  I  won't  take 
this.  Why,  Mis'  Colebrook,  do  you  think  I  'd  leave 
now,  with  that  poor  boy  blind,  an'  his  father  so 
wrought  up  he  don't  have  even  his  extraordinary 
common  sense  about  his  flannels  an'  socks  an'  what 
to  eat,  an'  no  money  to  pay  the  bills  with,  either? 
A-n'  him  bein'  pestered  the  life  out  of  him  with 
them  intermittent,  dunnin'  grocers  an'  milkmen? 
Well,  I  guess  not!  You  couldn't  hire  me  to  go, 
Mis'  Colebrook." 

"Daniel,  are  you  going  to  stand  there  and  per- 
mit me  to  be  talked  to  like  this?"  appealed  Mrs. 
Colebrook. 

"What  can  I  do?"  (Was  there  a  ghost  of  a 
twinkle  in  Daniel  Burton's  eyes  as  he  turned  with 
a  shrug  and  a  lift  of  his  eyebrows?)  "If  you  have  n't 
the  money  to  hire  her  — "  But  Mrs.  Colebrook, 
with  an  indignant  toss  of  her  head,  had  left  the 
room. 

"Mr.  Burton!"  Before  the  man  could  speak 
Susan  had  the  floor  again.  "Can't  you  do  some- 
thin',  sir?  Can't  you?" 

"Do  something,  Susan?"  frowned  the  man. 

"Yes,  with  your  sister,"  urged  Susan.  "I  don't 
mean  because  she 's  so  haughty  an'  impious.  I  can 
stand  that.  It's  about  Keith  I'm  talkin'  about. 
Mr.  Burton,  Keith  won't  never  get  well,  never, 


104  DAWN 

so's  he  can  have  that  operator  on  his  eyes,  unless 
he  takes  some  exercise  an'  gets  his  strength  back. 
The  nurse  an'  the  doctor  —  they  both  said  he 
wouldn't." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  Susan,"  fumed  the  man 
impatiently,  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
room.  "And  that's  just  what  we're  trying  to  do 
—  get  his  strength  back." 

"But  he  ain't  —  he  won't  —  he  can't,"  choked 
Susan  feverishly.  "Mr.  Burton,  I  know  you  don't 
want  to  talk  about  it,  but  you've  got  to.  I'm  all 
Keith's  got  to  look  out  for  him."  The  father  of 
Keith  gave  an  inarticulate  gasp,  but  Susan  plunged 
on  unheeding.  "An'  he'll  never  get  well  if  he  ain't 
let  to  get  up  an'  stand  an'  walk  an'  eat  an'  sit  down 
himself.  But  Mis'  Colebrook  won't  let  him.  She 
won't  let  him  do  anything.  She  keeps  say  in', 
'Don't  do  it,  oh,  don't  do  it,'  all  the  time,  —  when 
she  ought  to  say,  'Do  it,  do  it,  do  it!'  Mr.  Burton, 
cryin'  an'  wringin'  your  hands  an'  moanin',  'Oh, 
Keithie,  darling ! '  won't  make  a  boy  grow  red  blood 
an'  make  you  feel  so  fine  you  want  to  knock  a  man 
down !  Mr.  Burton,  I  want  you  to  tell  that  woman 
to  let  me  take  care  of  that  boy  for  jest  one  week  — 
one  week,  an'  her  not  to  come  near  him  with  her 
snivelin'  an'  — " 

But  Daniel  Burton,  with  two  hands  upflung,  and 
a  head  that  ducked  as  if  before  an  oncoming  blow, 
had  rushed  from  the  room.  For  the  second  time 
that  day  Daniel  Burton  had  fled  —  to  the  attic. 


CHAPTER  XI 
NOT  PATS  BUT  SCRATCHES 

MRS.  COLEBROOK  went  home  the  next  day. 
She  wore  the  air  of  an  injured  martyr  at 
breakfast.  She  told  her  brother  that,  of  course,  if 
he  preferred  to  have  an  ignorant  servant  girl  take 
care  of  his  poor  afflicted  son,  she  had  nothing  to 
say;  but  that  certainly  he  could  not  expect  her  to 
stay,  too,  especially  after  being  insulted  as  she  had 
been. 

*  Daniel  Burton  had  remonstrated  feebly,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  flung  his  arms  about  in  his  usual 
gestures  of  impotent  annoyance. 

Susan,  in  the  kitchen,  went  doggedly  about  her 
work,  singing,  meanwhile,  what  Keith  called  her 
"  mad  "  song.  When  Susan  was  particularly ' '  worked 
up"  over  something,  "jest  b'ilin'  inside"  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  she  always  sang  this  song  —  her  own 
composition,  to  the  tune  of  "When  Johnny  Comes 
Marching  Home": 

"I've  taken  my  worries,  an'  taken  my  woes, 

I  have,  I  have, 
An'  shut  'em  up  where  nobody  knows, 

I  have,  I  have. 
I  chucked  'em  down,  that's  what  I  did, 
An'  now  I  'm  sittin'  upon  the  lid, 
An'  we'll  all  feel  gay  when  Johnny  comes 

marchin'  home. 
I'm  sittin'  upon  the  lid,  I  am, 

Hurrah!  Hurrah! 


106  DAWN 

I'm  tryin'  to  be  a  little  lamb, 

Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
But  I'm  feelin'  more  like  a  great  big  slam 
Than  a  nice  little  peaceful  woolly  lamb, 
But  we'll  all  feel  gay  when  Johnny  comes 

marchin'  home." 

When  Daniel  Burton,  this  morning,  therefore, 
heard  Susan  singing  this  song,  he  was  in  no  doubt 
as  to  Susan's  state  of  mind  —  a  fact  which  certainly 
did  not  add  to  his  own  serenity. 

Upstairs,  Keith,  wearily  indifferent  as  to  every- 
thing that  was  taking  place  about  him,  lay  mo- 
tionless as  usual,  his  face  turned  toward  the 
wall. 

And  at  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Colebrook  went.  Five 
minutes  later  Daniel  Burton  entered  the  kitchen  — 
a  proceeding  so  extraordinary  that  Susan  broke  off 
her  song  in  the  middle  of  a  "Hurrah"  and  grew 
actually  pale. 

"What  is  it?  —  Keith?  Is  anything  the  matter 
with  Keith?"  she  faltered. 

Ignoring  her  question  the  man  strode  into  the 
room. 

"Well,  Susan,  this  time  you've  done  it,"  he 
ejaculated  tersely. 

" Done  it  —  to  Keith  —  me?  Why,  Mr.  Burton, 
what  do  you  mean?  Is  Keith  —  worse  ?  "  chattered 
Susan,  with  dry  lips.  "It  was  only  a  little  hash  I 
took  up.  He  simply  won't  eat  that  oatmeal  stuff, 
an'  —  " 

"No,  no,  I  don't  mean  the  hash,"  interrupted 
the  man  irritably.  "Keith  is  all  right  —  that  is,  he 


NOT  PATS  BUT  SCRATCHES        107 

is  just  as  he  has  been.  It's  my  sister,  Mrs.  Cole- 
brook.   She's  gone." 

"Gone  — for  good?" 

"Yes,  she's  gone  home." 

"Glory  be!"  The  color  came  back  to  Susan's 
face  in  a  flood,  and  frank  delight  chased  the  terror 
from  her  eyes.  "Now  we  can  do  somethin'  worth 
while." 

"I  reckon  you'll  find  you  have  to  do  something, 
Susan.  You  know  very  well  I  can't  afford  to  hire 
a  nurse  —  now." 

"I  don't  want  one." 

"But  there's  all  the  other  work,  too." 

"Work!  Why,  Mr.  Burton,  I  won't  mind  a  little 
work  if  I  can  have  that  blessed  boy  all  to  myself 
with  no  one  to  feed  him  oatmeal  mush  with  a 
spoon,  an'  snivel  over  him.  You  jest  wait.  The 
first  elemental  thing  is  to  learn  him  self -defiance, 
so  he  can  do  things  for  himself.  Then  he'll  begin 
to  get  his  health  an'  strength  for  the  operator." 

"You're  forgetting  the  money,  Susan.  It  costs 
money  for  that." 

Susan's  face  fell. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know."  She  hesitated,  then  went  on, 
her  color  deepening.  "An'  I  hain't  sold — none  o' 
them  poems  yet.  But  there's  other  magazines,  a 
whole  lot  of  'em,  that  I  hain't  tried.  Somebody's 
sure  to  take  'em  some  time." 

"I'm  glad  your  courage  is  still  good,  Susan;  but 
I'm  afraid  the  dear  public  is  going  to  appreciate 
your  poems  about  the  way  it  does  —  my  pictures," 


108  DAWN 

shrugged  the  man  bitterly,  as  he  turned  and  left 
the  room. 

Not  waiting  to  finish  setting  her  kitchen  in  or- 
der, Susan  ran  up  the  back  stairs  to  Keith's  room. 

"Well,  your  aunt  is  gone,  an'  I'm  on, 
An'  here  we  are  together. 
We'll  chuck  our  worries  into  pawn, 
An'  how  do  you  like  the  weather?" 

she  greeted  him  gayly.  "How  about  gettin'  up? 
Come  on !  Such  a  lazy  boy !  Here  it  is  away  in  the 
middle  of  the  forenoon,  an'  you  abed  like  this!" 

But  it  was  not  to  be  so  easy  this  time.  Keith  was 
not  to  be  cajoled  into  getting  up  and  dressing  him- 
self even  to  beat  Susan's  record.  Steadfastly  he 
resisted  all  efforts  to  stir  him  into  interest  or  action; 
and  a  dismayed,  disappointed  Susan  had  to  go 
downstairs  in  acknowledged  defeat. 

"But,  land's  sake,  what  could  you  expect?"  she 
muttered  to  herself,  after  a  sorrowful  meditation 
before  the  kitchen  fire.  "You  can't  put  a  backbone 
into  a  jellyfish  by  jest  showin'  him  the  bone  —  an' 
that 's  what  his  aunt  has  made  him  —  a  flappy , 
transparallel  jellyfish.  Drat  her!  But  I  ain't  goin' 
to  give  up.  Not  much  I  ain't!"  And  Susan  at- 
tacked the  little  kitchen  stove  with  a  vigor  that 
would  have  brought  terror  to  the  clinkers  of  a 
furnace  fire  pot. 

Susan  did  not  attempt  again  that  day  to  get 
Keith  up  and  dressed;  and  she  gave  him  his  favor- 
ite "pop-overs"  for  supper  with  a  running  fire  of 
merry  talk  and  jingles  that  contained  never  a  refer- 


NOT  PATS  BUT  SCRATCHES        109 

ence  to  the  unpleasant  habit  of  putting  on  clothes. 
But  the  next  morning,  after  she  had  given  Keith 
his  breakfast  (not  of  toast  and  oatmeal)  she  sug- 
gested blithely  that  he  get  up  and  be  dressed. 
When  he  refused  she  tried  coaxing,  mildly,  then 
more  strenuously.  When  this  failed  she  tried  to 
sting  his  pride  by  telling  him  she  did  not  believe 
he  could  get  up  now,  anyhow,  and  dress  himself. 

"All  right,  Susan,  let  it  go  that  I  can't.  I  don't 
want  to,  anyhow,"  sighed  the  boy  with  impatient 
weariness.   "Say,  can't  you  let  a  fellow  alone?" 

Susan  drew  a  long  breath  and  held  it  suspended 
for  a  moment.  She  had  the  air  of  one  about  to  make 
a  dreaded  plunge. 

"No,  I  can't  let  you  alone,  Keith,"  she  replied, 
voice  and  manner  now  coldly  firm. 

"Why  not?  What's  the  use  when  I  don't  want 
to  get  up?" 

"How  about  thinkin'  for  once  what  somebody 
else  wants,  young  man?"  Susan  caught  her  breath 
again,  and  glanced  furtively  at  the  half -a  verted 
face  on  the  pillow.  Then  doggedly  she  went  on. 
"Maybe  you  think  I  hain't  got  anything  to  do  but 
trespass  up  an'  down  them  stairs  all  day  waitin'  on 
you,  when  you  are  perfectly  capacious  of  waitin' 
on  yourself  some." 

"Why,  Susan!"  There  was  incredulous,  hurt 
amazement  in  the  boy's  voice;  but  Susan  was  visibly 
steeling  herself  against  it. 

"What  do  you  think?  —  that  I'm  loafin'  all 
day,  an'  your  aunt  gone  now,  an'  me  with  it  all  on 


110  DAWN 

my  hands?"  she  demanded,  her  stony  gaze  care- 
fully turned  away  from  the  white  face  on  the  pil- 
low. "An*  to  have  to  keep  runnin'  up  here  all  the 
mornin'  when  I've  got  to  do  the  dishes,  an'  bake 
bread,  an'  make  soap,  an'  — " 

"If  you'll  get  my  clothes,  Susan,  I'll  get  up," 
said  Keith  very  quietly  from  the  bed. 

And  Susan,  not  daring  to  unclose  her  lips, 
wrested  the  garments  from  the  hooks,  dropped  them 
on  to  the  chair  by  the  bed,  and  fled  from  the  room. 
But  she  had  not  reached  the  hall  below  when  the 
sobs  shook  her  frame. 

"An'  me  talkin'  like  that  when  I'd  be  willin'  to 
walk  all  day  on  my  hands  an'  knees,  if  't  would 
help  him  one  little  minute,"  she  choked. 

Barely  had  Susan  whipped  herself  into  present- 
able shape  again  when  Keith's  voice  at  the  kitchen 
door  caused  her  to  face  about  with  a  startled  cry. 

"I'm  downstairs,  Susan."  The  boy's  voice 
challenged  hers  for  coldness  now.  "I'll  take  my 
meals  down  here,  after  this." 

"Why,  Keith,  however  in  the  world  did  you  — >** 
Then  Susan  pulled  herself  up.  "Good  boy,  Keith! 
That  will  make  it  lots  easier,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
impersonally,  turning  away  and  making  a  great 
clatter  of  pans  in  the  sink. 

But  later,  at  least  once  every  half-hour  through 
that  long  forenoon,  Susan  crept  softly  through  the 
side  hall  to  the  half -open  living-room  door,  where 
she  could  watch  Keith.  She  watched  him  get  up 
and  move  slowly  along  the  side  of  the  room,  picking 


NOT  PATS  BUT  SCRATCHES        111 

his  way.  She  watched  him  pause  and  move  hesitat- 
ing fingers  down  the  backs  of  the  chairs  that  he 
encountered.  But  when  she  saw  him  stop  and 
finger  the  books  on  the  little  table  by  the  window, 
she  crept  back  to  her  kitchen — and  rattled  still 
more  loudly  the  pots  and  pans  in  the  sink. 

Just  before  the  noon  meal  Keith  appeared  once 
more  at  the  kitchen  door. 

"Susan,  would  it  bother  you  very  much  if  I  ate 
out  here  —  with  you?"  he  asked. 

"With  me?  Nonsense!  You'll  eat  in  the  dinin'- 
room  with  your  dad,  of  course.  Why,  what  would 
he  say  to  your  eatin'  out  here  with  me?" 

"That's  just  it.  It's  dad.  He'd  like  it,  I'm 
sure,"  insisted  the  boy  feverishly.  "You  know 
sometimes  I  —  I  don't  get  any  food  on  my  fork, 
when  I  eat,  an'  I  have  to  —  to  feel  for  things,  an' 
it  —  it  must  be  disagreeable  to  see  me.  An'  you 
know  he  never  liked  disagreeable  — " 

"Now,  Keith  Burton,  you  stop  right  where  you 
are,"  interrupted  Susan  harshly.  "You're  goin' 
to  eat  with  your  father  where  you  belong.  An'  do 
you  now  run  back  to  the  settin'-room.  I  've  got  my 
dinner  to  get." 

Keith  had  not  disappeared  down  the  hall,  how- 
ever, before  Susan  was  halfway  up  the  back  stairs. 
A  moment  later  she  was  in  the  studio. 

"Daniel  Burton,  you're  goin'  to  have  company 
to  dinner,"  she  panted. 

"  Company?  " 

"Yes.   Your  son." 


112  DAWN 

"Keith?"  The  man  drew  back  perceptibly. 

"There,  now,  Daniel  Burton,  don't  you  go  to 
scowlin'  an'  lookin'  for  a  place  to  run,  just  because 
you  hate  to  see  him  feel  'round  for  what  he  eats." 

"But,  Susan,  it  breaks  my  heart,"  moaned  the 
man,  turning  quite  away. 

"What  if  it  does?  Ain't  his  broke,  too?  Can't 
you  think  of  him  a  little?  Let  me  tell  you  this, 
Daniel  Burton  —  that  boy  has  more  consolation 
for  your  feelin's  than  you  have  for  his,  every  time. 
Did  n't  he  jest  come  to  me  an'  beg  to  eat  with  me, 
'cause  his  dad  did  n't  like  to  see  disagreeable  things, 
an  — 

The  man  wheeled  sharply. 

"Did  Keith  — do  that?" 

"He  did,  jest  now,  sir." 

"All  right,  Susan.  I  —  I  don't  think  you'll  have 
to  say  —  any  more." 

And  Susan,  after  a  sharp  glance  into  the  man's 
half-averted  face,  said  no  more.  A  moment  later 
she  had  left  the  room. 

At  dinner  that  day,  with  red  eyes  but  a  vivacious 
manner,  she  waited  on  a  man  who  incessantly 
talked  of  nothing  in  particular,  and  a  boy  who  sat 
white-faced  and  silent,  eating  almost  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CALLERS  FOR  "KEITHIE" 

AND  so  inch  by  inch  Susan  fought  her  way, 
and  inch  by  inch  she  gained  ground.  Some- 
times it  was  by  coaxing,  sometimes  by  scolding; 
perhaps  most  often  by  taunts  and  dares,  and 
shrewd  appeals  to  Keith's  pride.  But  by  whatever 
it  was,  each  day  saw  some  stride  forward,  some  new 
victory  that  Keith  had  won  over  his  blindness,  until 
by  the  end  of  the  week  the  boy  could  move  about 
the  house  and  wait  upon  himself  with  a  facility 
almost  unbelievable  when  one  remembered  his  list- 
less helplessness  of  a  week  before. 

Then  one  day  there  entered  into  the  case  a 
brand-new  element,  a  dainty  element  in  white 
muslin  and  fluttering  blue  ribbons  —  Mazie  San- 
born and  Dorothy  Parkman. 

"We  heard  Keithie  was  lots  better  and  up  and 
dressed  now,"  chirped  Mazie,  when  Susan  answered 
her  ring;  "and  so  we've  brought  him  some  flowers. 
Please  can't  we  see  him?" 

Susan  hesitated.  Susan  had  not  forgotten 
Keith's  feverish  retreat  from  Mazie's  greeting 
called  up  to  the  veranda  the  month  before.  But 
then,  for  that  matter,  had  he  not  retreated  from 
everything  until  she  determinedly  took  him  in 
hand?  And  he  must  some  time  begin  to  mingle 
with  the  world  outside  the  four  walls  of  his  house! 


114  DAWN 

Why  not  now?  What  better  chance  could  she  hope 
to  have  for  him  to  begin  than  this?  Where  could 
she  find  two  more  charmingly  alluring  ambassadors 
of  that  outside  world  than  right  here  on  the  door- 
step now? 

Susan's  lips  snapped  together  with  a  little  de- 
fiant nod  of  her  head,  then  parted  in  a  cordial 
smile. 

"Sure,  you  may  see  him,"  she  cried,  "an'  it's 
glad  that  I  am  to  have  you  come !  It  '11  do  him  good. 
Come  in,  come  in!"  And  with  only  a  heightened 
color  to  show  her  trepidation  as  to  the  reception 
that  might  be  accorded  her  charges,  she  threw 
open  the  sitting-room  door.  "Well,  Keith,  here's 
company  come  on  purpose  to  see  you.  An'  they  've 
brought  you  some  flowers,"  she  announced  gayly. 

"No,  no,  Susan,  I  —  I  don't  want  to  see  them," 
stammered  the  boy.  He  had  leaped  to  his  feet,  a 
painful  red  flooding  his  face. 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  bridled  Mazie,  with  playful 
indignation;  "and  when  Dorothy  and  I  have  taken 
all  this  trouble  to  come  and  —  " 

"Is  Dorothy  here,  too?"  interrupted  the  boy 
sharply. 

"Yes,  Keith  I  am  —  here."  Dorothy  was 
almost  crying,  and  her  voice  sounded  harsh  and 
unnatural. 

"And  we  brought  you  these,"  interposed  Mazie 
brightly,  crossing  the  room  to  his  side  and  holding 
out  the  flowers.  Then,  with  a  little  embarrassed 
laugh,  as  he  did  not  take  them,  she  thrust  them 


CALLERS  FOR  KEITHIE  115 

into  his  fingers.  "Oh,  I  forgot.  You  can't  see 
them,  can  you?" 

"Mazie! "  remonstrated  the  half -smothered  voice 
of  Dorothy. 

But  it  was  Susan  who  came  promptly  to  the 
rescue. 

"Yes,  an'  ain't  they  pretty?"  she  cried,  taking 
them  from  Keith's  unresisting  fingers.  "Here,  let 
me  put  'em  in  water,  an'  you  two  sit  down.  I 
always  did  love  coronation  pinks,"  she  declared 
briskly,  as  she  left  the  room. 

She  was  not  gone  long.  Very  quickly  she  came 
back,  with  the  flowers  in  a  vase.  Keith  had 
dropped  back  into  his  chair;  but  he  was  plainly  so 
unwilling  a  host  that  Susan  evidently  thought  best 
to  assist  him.  She  set  the  vase  on  a  little  stand 
near  Keith's  chair,  then  dropped  herself  on  to  the 
huge  haircloth  sofa  near  by. 

"My,  but  I  don't  mind  settin'  myself  awhile," 
she  smiled.   "Guess  I'm  tired." 

"I  should  think  you  would  be."  Mazie,  grown 
suddenly  a  bit  stiff  and  stilted,  was  obviously  try- 
ing to  be  very  polite  and  "grown  up."  "There 
must  be  an  awful  lot  to  do  here.  Mother  says  she 
don't  see  how  you  stand  it." 

"Pooh!  Not  so  very  much!"  scoffed  Susan, 
instantly  on  her  guard.  "Keith  here's  gettin'  so 
smart  he  won't  let  me  do  anything  hardly  for  him 
now." 

"Oh,  but  there  must  be  a  lot  of  things,"  began 
Mazie,  "  that  he  can't  do,  and  — " 


116  DAWN 

"Er  —  what  a  lovely  big,  sunny  room,"  inter- 
rupted Dorothy  hastily,  so  hastily  that  Susan 
threw  a  sharp  glance  into  her  face  to  see  if  she 
were  really  interrupting  Mazie  for  a  purpose.  "I 
love  big  rooms." 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  chimed  in  Mazie.  "And  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  see  the  inside  of  this  house,  too." 

"What  for?"  Keith's  curiosity  got  the  better 
of  his  vexed  reticence,  and  forced  the  question 
from  his  lips. 

"Oh,  just  'cause  I've  heard  folks  say  'twas  so 
wonderful  —  old,  you  know,  and  full  of  rare  old 
things,  and  there  was  n't  another  for  miles  around 
like  it.  But  I  don't  see  —  That  is,"  she  corrected 
herself,  stumbling  a  little,  "you  probably  don't 
keep  them  in  this  room,  anyway." 

"Why,  they  do,  too,"  interfered  Dorothy,  with 
suddenly  pink  cheeks.  "This  room  is  just  full  of 
the  loveliest  kind  of  old  things,  just  like  the  things 
father  is  always  getting  —  only  nicer.  Now  that, 
right  there  in  the  corner,  all  full  of  drawers  — 
We've  got  one  almost  just  exactly  like  that  out 
home,  and  father  just  dotes  on  it.  That  is  a  —  a 
highboy,  is  n't  it?"  she  appealed  to  Susan.  "And 
it  is  very  old,  is  n't  it?" 

"A  highboy?  Old?  Lan'  sakes,  child,"  laughed 
Susan.  "Maybe  't  is.  I  ain't  sayin'  't  is  n't, 
though  I'm  free  to  confess  I  never  heard  it  called 
that.  But  it's  old  enough,  if  that's  all  it  needs; 
it's  old  enough  to  be  a  highman  by  this  time,  I 
reckon,"  chuckled  Susan.   "Mr.  Burton  was  tellin* 


CALLERS  FOR  KEITHIE  117 

me  one  day  how  it  belonged  to  his  great-grand- 
mother." 

"Kind  of  funny-looking,  though,  isn't  it?" 
commented  Mazie. 

"  Father  'd  love  it,  so'd  Aunt  Hattie,"  avowed 
Dorothy,  evidently  not  slow  to  detect  the  lack  of 
appreciation  in  Mazie's  voice.  "And  I  do,  too," 
she  finished,  with  a  tinge  of  defiance. 

Mazie  laughed. 

"Well,  all  right,  you  may,  for  all  I  care,"  she 
retorted.  Then  to  Keith  she  turned  with  sudden 
disconcerting  abruptness:  "Say,  Keith,  what  do 
you  do  all  day?" 

It  was  Susan  who  answered  this.  Indeed,  it  was 
Susan  who  answered  a  good  many  of  the  questions 
during  the  next  fifteen  minutes.  Some  she  answered 
because  she  did  not  want  Keith  to  answer  them. 
More  she  answered  because  Keith  would  not  an- 
swer them.  To  tell  the  truth,  Keith  was  anything 
but  a  polite,  gracious  host.  He  let  it  be  plainly 
understood  that  he  was  neither  pleased  at  the  call 
nor  interested  in  the  conversation.  And  the  only 
semblance  of  eagerness  in  his  demeanor  that  after- 
noon was  when  his  young  visitors  rose  to  go. 

In  spite  of  Keith's  worse  than  indifference,  how- 
ever, Susan  was  convinced  that  this  call,  and  others 
like  it,  were  exactly  what  was  needed  for  Keith's 
best  welfare  and  development.  With  all  her  skill 
and  artifice,  therefore,  she  exerted  herself  to  make 
up  for  Keith's  negligence.  She  told  stories,  rattled 
off  absurd  jingles,  and  laughed  and  talked  with 


118  DAWN 

each  young  miss  in  turn,  determined  to  make  the 
call  so  great  a  success  that  the  girls  would  wish  to 
come  again. 

When  she  had  bowed  them  out  and  closed  the 
door  behind  them,  she  came  back  to  Keith,  intend- 
ing to  remonstrate  with  him  for  his  very  ungracious 
behavior.  But  before  she  could  open  her  lips  Keith 
himself  had  the  floor. 

"Susan  Betts,"  he  began  passionately,  as  soon 
as  she  entered  the  room,  "  don't  you  ever  let  those 
girls  in  again.  I  won't  have  them.  I  won't  have 
them,  I  tell  you!" 

"Oh,  for  shame,  Keith!  —  and  when  they  were 
so  kind  and  thoughtful,  too!" 

"It  was  n't  kindness  and  thoughtfulness,"  re- 
sented the  boy.  "It  was  spying  out.  They  came 
to  see  how  I  took  it.  I  know  'em.  And  that  Doro- 
thy Parkman  —  I  don't  know  why  she  came.  She 
said  long  ago  that  she  could  n't  bear  —  to  look 
at  'em." 

"Look  at  them?" 

"Yes  —  blind  folks.  Her  father  is  a  big  oculist 
—  doctors  eyes,  you  know.  She  told  me  once.  And 
she  said  she  could  n't  bear  to  look  at  them;  that  — " 

"An  eye  doctor?  —  a  big  one?"  Susan  was  sud- 
denly excited,  alert. 

"Yes,  yes.  And—" 

"Where's  he  live?" 

"I  don't  know.  Where  she  does,  I  s'pose.  I  don't 
know  where  that  is.  She's  here  most  of  the  time, 
and  —  " 


CALLERS  FOR  KEITHIE  119 

"Is  he  a  real  big  one?  —  a  really,  truly  big  one? " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  guess  so."  Keith  had  fallen  wearily 
back  in  his  chair,  his  strength  spent.  "Dad  said 
he  was  one  of  the  biggest  in  the  country.  And  of 
course  lots  of  —  of  blind  people  go  there,  and  she 
sees  them.  Only  she  says  she  can't  bear  to  see  them, 
that  she  won't  look  at  them.  And  —  and  she  shan't 
come  here  —  she  shan't,  Susan,  to  look  at  me, 
and—" 

But  Susan  was  not  listening  now.  With  chin  up- 
tilted  and  a  new  fire  in  her  eyes,  she  had  turned 
toward  the  kitchen  door. 

Two  days  later,  on  her  way  to  the  store,  Susan 
spied  Dorothy  Parkman  across  the  street.  Without 
hesitation  or  ceremony  she  went  straight  across 
and  spoke  to  her. 

"Is  it  true  that  your  father  is  a  big  occultist, 
one  of  the  biggest  there  is?"  she  demanded. 

"A  — what?"  Dorothy  frowned  slightly. 

"Occultist  —  doctors  folks' eyes,  you  know.  Is 
he?   I  heard  he  was." 

"Oh!  Y-yes  —  yes,  he  is."  Miss  Dorothy  was 
giggling  a  bit  now. 

"Then,  listen!"  In  her  eagerness  Susan  had 
caught  the  girl's  sleeve  and  held  it.  "Can't  you  get 
him  to  come  on  an'  see  you,  right  away,  quick? 
Don't  he  want  to  take  you  home,  or  —  or  some- 
thing?" 

Dorothy  laughed  merrily. 

"Why,  Susan,  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  as  all  that 
to  get  rid  of  me?    Did  I  act  so  bad  the  other  day 


120  DAWN 

that — "  A  sudden  change  crossed  her  face.  Her 
eyes  grew  soft  and  luminous.  "Was  it  for  —  Keith 
that  you  wanted  father,  Susan?" 

' *  Yes. ' '  Susan's  eyes  blurred,  and  her  voice  choked. 

"Well,  then  I'm  glad  to  tell  you  he  is  coming  by 
and  by.  He's  coming  to  take  me  home  for  Christ- 
mas. But  —  he  is  n't  going  to  stay  long." 

"That's  all  right  — that's  all  right,"  retorted 
Susan,  a  little  breathlessly.  "If  he'd  jest  look  at 
the  boy's  eyes  an'  tell  if  —  if  he  could  fix  'em  later. 
You  see,  we  —  we  could  n't  have  it  done  now,  'cause 
there  ain't  any  money  to  pay.  But  we'll  have  it 
later.   We'll  sure  have  it  later,  an'  then  — " 

"Of  course  he'll  look  at  them,"  interrupted 
Dorothy  eagerly.  "He'll  love  to,  I  know.  He's  al- 
ways so  interested  in  eyes,  and  new  cases.  And 
—  and  don't  worry  about  the  other  part  —  the 
money,  you  know,"  nodded  Dorothy,  hurrying 
away  then  before  Susan  could  protest. 

As  it  happened  Keith  was  more  "difficult"  than 
usual  that  afternoon,  and  Susan,  thinking  to  rouse 
him  from  his  lassitude,  suddenly  determined  to  tell 
him  all  about  the  wonderful  piece  of  good  fortune 
in  store  for  him. 

"How'd  you  like  to  have  that  little  Miss  Dor- 
othy's daddy  see  your  eyes,  honey,"  she  began 
eagerly,  "an' tell— " 

"I  wouldn't  let  him  see  them."  Keith  spoke 
coldly,  decisively. 

"Oh,  but  he's  one  of  the  biggest  occultists  there 
is,  an'  —  " 


CALLERS  FOR  KEITHIE  121 

"I  suppose  you  mean  'oculist,'  Susan,"  inter- 
rupted Keith,  still  more  coldly;  "but  that  does  n't 
make  any  difference.   I  don't  want  him." 

"But,  Keith,  if  he— " 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  have  him,"  snapped  Keith 
irritably. 

"But  you've  got  to  have  somebody,  an'  if  he's 
the  biggest!"  All  the  eager  light  had  died  out  of 
Susan's  face. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  is  the  biggest,  he's  Dorothy 
Parkman's  father,  and  that's  enough.  I  won't 
have  him!" 

"No,  no;  well,  all  right!"  And  Susan,  terrified 
and  dismayed,  hurried  from  the  room. 

But  though  Susan  was  dismayed  and  terrified, 
she  was  far  from  being  subdued.  In  the  kitchen  she 
lifted  her  chin  defiantly. 

"All  right,  Master  Keith,"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self. "You  can  say  what  you  want  to,  but  you'll 
have  him  jest  the  same  —  only  you  won't  know 
he's  him.  I'll  jest  tell  him  to  call  hisself  another 
name  for  you.  An'  some  time  I'll  find  out  what 
there  is  behind  that  Dorothy  Parkman  business. 
But  't  ain't  till  Christmas,  an'  that's  'most  two 
months  off  yet.  Time  enough  for  trouble  when 
trouble  knocks  at  the  door;  an'  till  it  does  knock, 
jest  keep  peggin'  away." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
FREE  VERSE  —  A  LA  SUSAN 

AND  persistently,  systematically  Susan  did,  in- 
deed, keep  "peggin'  away."  No  sooner  had 
she  roused  Keith  to  the  point  of  accomplishing  one 
task  than  she  set  for  him  another.  No  sooner  could 
he  pilot  himself  about  one  room  than  she  inveigled 
him  into  another.  And  when  he  could  go  every- 
where about  the  house  she  coaxed  him  out  into  the 
yard.  It  was  harder  here,  for  Keith  had  a  morbid 
fear  of  being  stared  at.  And  only  semi-occasionally 
would  he  consent  at  all  to  going  out. 

It  was  then  that  with  stern  determination  Susan 
sought  Daniel  Burton. 

"Look  a-here,  Daniel  Burton,"  she  accosted 
him  abruptly,  "I've  done  all  I  can  now,  an*  it's 
up  to  you." 

The  man  looked  up,  plainly  startled. 

"Why,  Susan,  you  don't  mean  —  you  are  n't  — 
going,  are  you?" 

"  Goin'  nothin'  —  shucks ! "  tossed  Susan  to  one 
side  disdainfully.  "  I  mean  that  Keith  ain't  goin' 
to  get  that  good  red  blood  he's  needin'  sittin'  'round 
the  house  here.  He 's  got  to  go  off  in  the  woods  an' 
walk  an'  tramp  an'  run  an'  scuff  leaves.  An'  you  've 
got  to  go  with  him.   I  can't,  can  I?" 

The  man  shifted  his  position  irritably. 


FREE  VERSE  —  A  LA  SUSAN        123 

"Do  you  think  that  boy  will  let  me  lead  him 
through  the  streets,  Susan?  Well,  I  know  he 
won't." 

"I  didn't  say  'lead  him.'  I  said  go  with  him. 
There's  an  awful  lot  of  difference  between  leadin* 
an'  accommodatin'.  We  don't  none  of  us  like  to  be 
led,  but  we  don't  mind  goin'  with  folks  'most  any- 
wheres. Put  your  arm  into  his  an'  walk  together. 
He  '11  walk  that  way.  I  've  tried  it.  An'  to  see  him 
you  would  n't  know  he  was  blind  at  all.  Oh,  yes, 
I  know  you're  hangin'  back  an'  don't  want  to.  I 
know  you  hate  to  see  him  or  be  with  him,  'cause 
it  makes  you  know  what  a  terrible  thing  it  is  that 's 
come  to  you  an'  him.  But  you've  got  to,  Daniel 
Burton.  You  an'  me  is  all  he's  got  to  stand  between 
him  an'  utter  misery.  I  can  feed  his  stomach  an' 
make  him  do  the  metaphysical  things,  but  it 's  you 
that's  got  to  feed  his  soul  an'  make  him  do  the 
menial  things." 

"Oh,  Susan,  Susan!"  half  groaned  the  man. 
There  was  a  smile  on  his  lips,  but  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  it's  so,"  argued  Susan  earnestly.  "Oh, 
I  read  to  him,  of  course.  I  read  him  everything  I 
can  get  hold  of,  especially  about  men  an'  women 
that  have  become  great  an'  famous  an'  extinguished, 
even  if  they  was  blind  or  deaf  an'  dumb,  or  lame 
—  especially  blind.  But  I  can't  learn  him  books, 
Mr.  Burton.  You've  got  to  do  that.  You've  got 
to  be  eyes  for  him,  an'  he 's  got  to  go  to  school  to 
you.  Mr.  Burton," — Susan's  voice  grew  husky  and 


124  DAWN 

unsteady,  —  "you've  got  a  chance  now  to  paint 
bigger  an'  grander  pictures  than  you  ever  did  be- 
fore, only  you  won't  be  paintin'  'em  on  canvas 
backs.  You'll  be  paintin'  'em  on  that  boy's  soul, 
an'  you'll  be  usin'  words  instead  of  them  little 
brushes." 

"You've  put  that  —  very  well,  Susan."  It  was 
the  man  who  spoke  unsteadily,  huskily,  now. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  I  do  know  that 
them  pictures  you  're  goin'  to  paint  for  him  is  goin' 
to  be  the  makin'  of  him.  Why,  Mr.  Burton,  we  can't 
have  him  lazin'  behind,  'cause  when  he  does  get 
back  his  eyes  we  don't  want  him  to  be  too  far  be- 
hind his  class." 

"But  what — if  he  doesn't  ever  get  his  eyes, 
Susan?" 

"Then  he  '11  need  it  all  the  more.  But  he's  goin' 
to  get  'em,  Mr.  Burton.  Don't  you  remember? 
The  nurse  said  if  he  got  well  an'  strong  he  could 
have  somethin'  done.  I've  got  the  doctor,  an'  all 
I  need  now  is  the  money.  An'  —  an'  that  makes  me 
think."  She  hesitated,  growing  suddenly  pink  and 
embarrassed.  Then  resolutely  she  put  her  hand  into 
the  pocket  of  her  apron  and  pulled  out  two  folded 
papers. 

"I  was  goin'  to  tell  you  about  these,  anyhow, 
so  I  might  as  well  do  it  now,"  she  explained.  "You 
know,  them  —  them  other  poems  did  n't  sell  much 
—  there  was  only  one  went,  an'  the  man  would  n't 
take  that  till  he  'd  made  me  promise  he  could  print 
my  letter,  too,  that  I  'd  wrote  with  it  —  jest  as  if 


FREE  VERSE  — A  LA  SUSAN        125 

that  was  worth  anything!  —  but  he  only  paid  a 
measly  dollar  anyhow."  Susan's  voice  faltered 
a  little,  though  her  chin  was  at  a  brave  tilt.  "An' 
I  guess  now  I  know  the  reason.  Them  kind  of  poems 
ain't  stylish  no  longer.  Rhymes  has  gone  out. 
Everything's  'free  verse'  now.  I've  been  readin' 
up  about  it.  So  I've  wrote  some  of  'em.  They're 
real  easy  to  do  —  jest  lines  chopped  off  free  an' 
easy,  anywheres  that  it  happens,  only  have  some 
long,  an'  some  short,  for  notoriety,  you  know,  like 
this."   And  she  read: 


'A  great  big  cloud 
That  was  black 
Came  up 

Out  of  the  West.  An'  I  knew 
Then 
For  sure 

That  a  storm  was  brewin'. 
An'  it  brewed." 


"Now  that  was  dead  easy  —  anybody  could  see 
that.  But  it's  kind  of  pretty,  I  think,  too,  jest  the 
same.  Them  denatured  poems  are  always  pretty, 
I  think  —  about  trees  an'  grass  an'  flowers  an'  the 
sky,  you  know.   Don't  you?" 

"Why,  er  —  y-yes,  of  course,"  murmured  the 
man  faintly. 

"I  tried  a  love  poem  next.  I  don't  write  them 
very  often.  They're  so  common.  You  see  'em 
everywhere,  you  know.  But  I  thought  I  would 
try  it  —  't  would  be  different,  anyhow,  in  this  new 
kind  of  verses.   So  I  wrote  this: 


126  DAWN 

Oh,  love  of  mine, 
I  love 

Thee. 

Thy  hair  is  yellow  like  the 

Golden  squash. 

Thy  neck  so  soft 

An'  slender  like  a  goose, 

Is  encompassed  in  filtered  lace 

So  rich  an' 

Rare. 

Thy  eyes  in  thy  pallid  face  like 

Blueberries  in  a 

Saucer  of  milk. 

Oh,  love  of  mine, 

I  love 

Thee." 

"Have  you  sent  —  any  of  these  away  yet, 
Susan?"  Daniel  Burton  was  on  his  feet  now,  his 
back  carefully  turned. 

"No,  not  yet;  but  I'm  goin'  to  pretty  quick,  an' 
I  guess  them  will  sell."  Susan  nodded  happily,  and 
smiled.  But  almost  instantly  her  face  grew  gravely 
earnest  again.  "But  all  the  money  in  the  world 
ain't  goin'  to  do  no  good  Mr.  Burton,  unless  we  do 
our  part,  an'  our  part  is  to  get  him  well  an'  strong 
for  that  operator.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  send  Keith 
in  to  you.  I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  him  he's  goin'  to 
walk  with  you,  'cause  if  I  did  he  would  n't  come. 
But  I'm  expectin'  you  to  take  him,  jest  the  same," 
she  finished  severely,  as  she  left  the  room. 

Keith  and  his  father  went  to  walk.  It  was  the 
first  of  many  such  walks.  Almost  every  one  of 
these  crisp  November  days  found  the  two  off  on  a 
tramp  somewhere.  And  because  Daniel  Burton 
was  careful  always  to  accompany,  never  to  lead, 


FREE  VERSE  — A  LA  SUSAN   127 

the  boy's  step  gained  day  by  day  in  confidence 
and  his  face  in  something  very  like  interest.  And 
always,  for  cold  and  stormy  days,  there  were  the 
books  at  home. 

Daniel  Burton  was  not  painting  pictures  —  pig- 
ment pictures  —  these  days.  His  easel  was  empty. 
"The  Woodland  Path,"  long  since  finished,  had 
been  sent  away  "to  be  sold."  Most  of  Daniel  Bur- 
ton's paintings  were  "sent  away  to  be  sold,"  so  that 
was  nothing  new.  What  was  new,  however,  was 
the  fact  that  no  fresh  canvas  was  placed  on  the 
easel  to  take  the  place  of  the  picture  sent  away. 
Daniel  Burton  had  begun  no  new  picture.  The 
easel,  indeed,  was  turned  face  to  the  wall.  And  yet 
Daniel  Burton  was  painting  pictures,  wonderful 
pictures.  His  brushes  were  words,  his  colors  were 
the  blue  and  gold  and  brown  and  crimson  of  the 
wide  autumn  landscape,  his  inspiration  was  the 
hungry  light  on  a  boy's  face,  and  his  canvas  was 
the  soul  of  the  boy  behind  it.  Most  assuredly 
Daniel  Burton  was  giving  himself  now,  heart  and 
mind  and  body,  to  his  son.  Even  the  lynx-eyed, 
alert  Susan  had  no  fault  to  find.  Daniel  Burton, 
most  emphatically,  was  "doing  his  part." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND 

THE  week  before  Christmas  Dorothy  Park- 
man  brought  a  tall,  dignified-looking  man  to 
the  Burtons'  shabby,  but  still  beautiful,  colonial 
doorway. 

Dorothy  had  not  seen  Keith,  except  on  the  street, 
since  her  visit  with  Mazie  in  October.  Two  or 
three  times  the  girls  had  gone  to  the  house  with 
flowers  or  fruit,  but  Keith  had  stubbornly  refused 
to  see  them,  in  spite  of  Susan's  urgings.  To-day 
Dorothy,  with  this  evidently  in  mind,  refused 
Susan's  somewhat  dubious  invitation  to  come  in. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  I '11  not  come  in,"  she  smiled. 
"I  only  brought  father,  that's  all.  And  —  oh,  I  do 
hope  he  can  do  something,"  she  faltered  unsteadily. 
And  Susan  saw  that  her  eyes  were  glistening  with 
tears  as  she  turned  away. 

In  the  hall  Susan  caught  the  doctor's  arm  ner- 
vously. 

"Dr.  Parkman,  there's  somethin'  — " 

"My  name  is  Stewart,"  interrupted  the  doctor. 

"What's  that?  What's  that?"  cried  Susan,  un- 
consciously tightening  her  clasp  on  his  arm.  "Ain't 
you  Dorothy  Parkman's  father?" 

"I'm  her  stepfather.  She  was  nine  when  I  mar- 
ried Mrs.  Parkman,  her  mother." 

"Then  your  name  ain't  Parkman,  at  all!    Oh, 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND  129 

glory  be!"  ejaculated  Susan  ecstatically.  "Well,  if 
that  ain't  the  luckiest  thing  ever!" 

"  Lucky?  "  frowned  the  doctor,  looking  thoroughly 
mystified,  and  not  altogether  pleased. 

Susan  gave  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"There,  now,  if  that  ain't  jest  like  me,  to  fly  off 
on  a  tandem  like  that,  without  a  word  of  exploita- 
tion. It 's  jest  that  I  'm  so  glad  I  won't  have  to  ask 
you  to  come  under  a  resumed  name." 

"Under  a  what,  madam? "  The  doctor  was  look- 
ing positively  angry  now.  Moreover,  with  no  un- 
certain determination,  he  was  trying  to  draw  him- 
self away  from  Susan's  detaining  fingers. 

"Oh,  please,  doctor,  please,  don't  be  mad!" 
Susan  had  both  hands  hold  of  his  arm  now.  "  'T  was 
for  Keith,  an'  I  knew  you'd  be  willin'  to  do  any- 
thing for  him,  when  you  understood,  jest  as  I  am. 
You  see,  I  did  n't  want  him  to  know  you  was  Dor- 
othy's father,"  she  plunged  on  breathlessly,  "an' 
so  I  was  goin'  to  ask  you  to  let  me  call  you  some- 
thin'  else  —  not  Parkman.  An'  then,  when  I  found 
that  you  did  n't  have  to  have  a  resumed  name,  that 
you  was  already  somebody  else  —  that  is,  that  you 
was  really  you,  only  Keith  would  n't  know  you  was 
you,  I  was  so  glad." 

"Oh,  I  see."  The  doctor  was  still  frowning, 
though  his  lips  were  twitching  a  little.  "But  —  er 
—  do  you  mind  telling  me  why  I  can't  be  I?  What 's 
the  matter  with  Dorothy's  father?  " 

"Nothin'  sir.  It's  jest  a  notion.  Keith  won't  see 
Dorothy,  nor  Mazie,  nor  none  of  'em.   He  thinks 


130  DAWN 

they  come  jest  to  spy  out  how  he  looks  an'  acts; 
an'  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  if  you  was  Dorothy's 
father,  he  would  n't  see  you.  He  hates  to  be  pitied 
an'  stared  at." 

"Oh,  I  see."  A  sympathetic  understanding  came 
into  the  doctor's  eyes.  The  anger  was  all  gone  now. 
"Very  well.  As  it  happens  I'm  really  Dr.  Stewart. 
So  you  may  call  me  that  with  all  honesty,  and 
we  '11  be  very  careful  not  to  let  the  boy  know  I  ever 
heard  of  Dorothy  Parkman.  How  about  the  boy's 
father?   Does  he  —  know?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  told  him  who  you  was,  an'  that  you 
was  comin';  an'  I  told  him  we  was  n't  goin'  to  let 
Keith  know.  An'  he  said  't  was  absurd,  an'  we 
could  n't  help  lettin'  him  know.  But  I  told  him  I 
knew  better  an'  'twas  all  right." 

"Oh,  you  did!"  The  doctor  was  regarding  Susan 
with  a  new  interest  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  an'  *t  is,  you  see." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Burton?" 

"In  his  studio  —  shut  up.  He'll  see  you  after- 
wards.  I  told  him  he'd  got  to  do  that." 

"Eh?  What?"  The  doctor's  eyes  flew  wide 
open. 

"See  you  afterwards.  I  told  him  he'd  ought  to 
be  in  the  room  with  you,  when  you  was  examplin' 
Keith's  eyes.  But  I  knew  he  would  n't  do  that. 
He  never  will  do  such-like  things  —  makes  him  feel 
too  bad.  An'  he  wanted  me  to  find  out  what  you 
said.  But  I  told  him  he'd  got  to  do  that.  But,  oh, 
doctor,  I  do  hope  —  oh,  please,  please  say  some- 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND  131 

thin'  good  if  you  can.  An'  now  I'll  take  you  in. 
It 's  right  this  way  through  the  sittin'-room." 

"By  Jove,  what  a  beauty!"  Halfway  across  the 
living-room  the  doctor  had  come  to  a  pause  before 
the  mahogany  highboy. 

"That?" 

"  Yes, '  that ' ! "  The  whimsical  smile  in  the  doctor's 
eyes  showed  that  he  was  not  unappreciative  of  the 
scorn  in  Susan's  voice.  "By  George,  it  is  a  beauty! 
I  've  got  one  myself,  but  it  does  n't  compare  with 
that,  for  a  minute.  H-m!  And  that's  not  the  only 
treasure  you  have  here,  I  see,"  he  finished,  his  ad- 
miring gaze  roving  about  the  room. 

"We've  got  some  newer,  better  stuff  in  the  par- 
lor. These  are  awful  old  things  in  here,"  apologized 
Susan. 

"Yes,  I  see  they  are  —  old  things."  The  whim- 
sical smile  had  come  back  to  the  doctor's  eyes  as 
he  followed  Susan  through  the  doorway. 

"Keith's  upstairs  in  his  room,  an'  I'm  takin* 
you  up  the  back  way  so's  Mr.  Burton  won't  hear. 
He  asked  me  to.  He  did  n't  want  to  know  jest 
exactly  when  you  was  here." 

"Mr.  Burton  must  be  a  brave  man,"  commented 
the  doctor  dryly. 

"He  ain't  —  not  when  it  comes  to  seem*  dis- 
agreeable things,  or  folks  hurt,"  answered  the  lit- 
eral Susan  cheerfully.  "But  he'll  see  you  all  right, 
when  it's  over."  Her  lips  came  together  with  a 
sudden  grimness. 

The  next  moment,  throwing  open  Keith's  door, 


132  DAWN 

her  whole  expression  changed.  She  had  eyes  and 
thoughts  but  for  the  blind  boy  over  by  the  window. 

The  doctor,  too,  obviously,  by  the  keen,  pro- 
fessional alertness  that  transfigured  his  face  at  that 
moment,  had  eyes  and  thoughts  but  for  that  same 
blind  boy  over  by  the  window. 

"Well,  Keith,  here's  Dr.  Stewart  to  see  you, 
boy." 

"Dr.  —  Stewart?"  Keith  was  on  his  feet, 
startled,  uncertain. 

"Yes,  Dr.  Stewart."  Susan  repeated  the  name 
with  clear  emphasis.  "  He  was  in  town  an'  jest  came 
up  to  look  at  you.  He's  a  big,  kind  doctor,  dear, 
an'  you'll  like  him,  I  know."  At  the  door  Susan 
turned  to  the  doctor.  "An'  when  —  when  you're 
done,  sir,  if  you'll  jest  come  down  them  stairs  to  the 
kitchen,  please  —  to  the  kitchen"  she  repeated, 
hurrying  out  before  Keith  could  remonstrate. 

Down  in  the  kitchen  Susan  took  a  pan  of  pota- 
toes to  peel  —  and  when,  long  hours  later,  after 
the  doctor  had  come  downstairs,  had  talked  with 
Mr.  Burton,  and  had  gone,  Susan  went  to  get  those 
potatoes  to  boil  for  dinner,  she  found  that  all  but 
two  of  them  had  been  peeled  and  peeled  and  peeled, 
until  there  was  nothing  left  but  —  peelings. 

Susan  was  peeling  the  next  to  the  last  potato 
when  the  doctor  came  down  to  the  kitchen. 

"Well?"  She  was  on  her  feet  instantly. 

The  doctor's  face  was  grave,  yet  his  eyes  were 
curiously  alight.  They  seemed  to  be  looking  through 
and  beyond  Susan. 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND  133 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  have  good  news,  but 
I'm  not  —  sure." 

"But  there's  a  chance?" 

"Yes;  but — "  There  was  a  moment's  silence; 
then,  with  an  indrawing  of  his  breath,  the  doctor's 
soul  seemed  to  come  back  from  a  long  journey.  "I 
think  I  know  what  is  the  matter."  The  doctor  was 
looking  at  Susan,  now,  not  through  her.  "If  it's 
what  I  think  it  is,  it's  a  very  rare  disease,  one  we 
do  not  often  find." 

"But  could  you  —  can  you  —  is  it  possible  to  — 
to  cure  it?" 

"We  can  operate  —  yes;  but  it's  six  to  half  a 
dozen  whether  it's  successful  or  not.  They've  just 
about  broken  even  so  far  —  the  cases  I  've  known 
about.  But  they've  been  interesting,  most  inter- 
esting." The  doctor  was  far  away  again. 

"But  there's  a  chance;  and  if  there  is  a  chance 
I'd  want  to  take  it,"  cried  Susan.    "Wouldn't 

you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Susan  hesitated,  threw  a  hurried  glance  into  the 
doctor's  preoccupied  face,  then  hurried  on  again 
feverishly. 

"Doctor,  there's  somethin'  I've  got  to  —  to 
speak  to  you  about  before  you  see  Mr.  Burton. 
It  —  it  —  it'll  cost  an  awful  lot,  I  s'pose." 

There  was  no  answer. 

Susan  cleared  her  throat. 

"It  —  it'll  cost  an  awful  lot,  won't  it,  doctor?" 
she  asked  in  a  louder  voice. 


134  DAWN 

"Eh?  What?  Cost?  Oh,  yes,  yes;  it  is  an  expen- 
sive operation."  The  doctor  spoke  unconcernedly. 
He  merely  glanced  at  Susan,  then  resumed  his 
fixed  gaze  into  space. 

"Well,  doctor."  Susan  cleared  her  throat  again. 
This  time  she  caught  hold  of  the  doctor's  sleeve 
as  if  to  pull  him  bodily  back  to  a  realizing  sense  of 
her  presence.  "About  the  money  —  we  have  n't 
got  it.  An'  that's  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about.  Mr.  Burton  hain't  got  any.  He's  already 
spent  more'n  he's  got  —  part  of  next  year's  an- 
nual, I  mean.  Some  day  he'll  have  more  —  a  whole 
lot  more  —  when  Mis'  Holworthy,  his  third  cousin, 
dies.  'T  was  her  husband  that  gave  him  the 
annual,  you  understand,  an'  when  she  dies  it'll 
come  to  him  in  a  plump  sum.  But 't  ain't  his  now, 
an'  'course  it  won't  be  till  she  goes;  an'  'course 
't  ain't  for  us  to  dodge  her  footsteps  hopin'  she'll 
jest  naturally  stop  walkin'  some  day  —  though  I  'm 
free  to  confess  she  has  lost  most  all  her  facilities, 
bein'  deaf  an'  lame  an'  some  blind;  an'  I  can't 
exactly  see  the  harm  in  wishin'  she  had  got  'em  all 
back  —  in  Heaven,  I  mean.  But  'course  I  don't 
say  so  to  him.  An'  as  I  said  before,  we  hain't  got 
money  now  —  not  any. 

"An'  —  an'  his  last  pictures  didn't  sell  any 
better  than  the  others,"  she  went  on  a  little  breath- 
lessly. "Then  there  was  me  —  that  is,  /  was  goin' 
to  get  some  money;  but  —  but,  well  my  pictures 
did  n't  sell,  either."  She  paused  to  wet  her  lips. 
"But  I've  thought  it  all  out,  an'  there's  a  way. 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND  135 

You  —  you  'd  have  to  have  Keith  with  you,  some- 
wheres,  would  n't  you?" 

"To  operate?  Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"A  long  time?" 

"Eh?  What?  Oh,  yes,  we  would  have  to  have 
him  a  long  time,  probably.  In  fact,  time  is  one  of 
the  very  biggest  factors  in  such  cases  —  for  the 
after-treatment,  you  know.  And  we  must  have 
him  where  we  can  watch  him,  of  course." 

"Oh!  Then  that's  all  right,  then.  I  can  man- 
age it  fine,"  sighed  Susan,  showing  by  the  way 
her  whole  self  relaxed  how  great  had  been  the 
strain.    "Then  I'll  come  right  away  to  work  for 

you." 

"To  what?"  The  doctor  suddenly  came  back  to 
earth. 

"To  work  for  you  —  in  your  kitchen,  I  mean," 
nodded  Susan.  "I'll  send  Mr.  Burton  to  his  sis- 
ter's, then  I  '11  come  to  you,  an'  I  '11  come  impaired 
to  stay  till  I  've  paid  it  up  —  every  cent." 

"Good  Heavens,  woman!"  ejaculated  the  man. 
"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Oh,  please,  please  don't  say  that  I  can't,"  be- 
sought Susan,  her  fearful  eyes  on  his  perturbed 
face.  "I'll  work  real  well  —  truly  I  will.  An'  I'm 
a  real  good  cook,  honest  I  am,  when  I  have  a  super- 
abundance to  do  it  with  —  butter,  an'  eggs,  an' 
nice  roasts.  An'  I  won't  bother  you  a  mite  with  my 
poetry.  I  don't  make  it  much  now,  anyhow.  An' 
—  oh,  doctor,  you've  got  to  let  me  do  it;  it's  the 
only  way  there  is  to  p-pay."  Her  voice  choked  into 


136  DAWN 

silence.  Susan  turned  her  back  abruptly.  Not  even 
for  Keith  could  Susan  let  any  one  see  her  cry. 

"Pay!  And  do  you  think  you'd  live  long — " 
Just  in  time  the  doctor  pulled  himself  up  short. 
Thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets  he  took  a 
nervous  turn  about  the  kitchen;  then  sharply  he 
wheeled  about.  "My  dear  woman,  let  us  talk  no 
more  about  the  money  question.  See  here,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  take  that  boy  into  my  charge  and  take 
care  of  him  for  the  sheer  love  of  it  —  indeed,  I 
shall!" 

"Do  you  mean  without  any  pay?"  Susan  had 
drawn  herself  up  haughtily. 

"Yes.  So  far  as  money  goes  —  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence, anyway.  I'm  glad  — " 

"Thank  you,  but  we  ain't  charitable  folks,  Dr. 
Stewart,"  cut  in  Susan  coldly.  "Maybe  it  is  infin- 
itesimal to  you  whether  we  pay  or  not,  but 't  ain't 
to  us.  We  don't  want  — " 

"  But  I  tell  you  it 's  pay  enough  just  to  do  it," 
interrupted  the  doctor  impatiently.  "It's  a  very 
rare  case,  and  I'm  glad  — *' 

A  door  banged  open. 

"Susan,  has  n't  that  doctor  — "a  new  voice  cut 
in,  then  stopped  short. 

The  doctor  turned  to  see  a  pallid-faced,  blond- 
bearded  man  with  rumpled  hair  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

"Mr.  Burton?"  hazarded  the  doctor  crisply. 

"Yes.  And  you—" 

"Dr.  Stewart.  And  I  'd  like  a  little  talk  with  you, 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND         137 

please  —  if  you  can  talk  sense."  This  last  was 
added  under  his  breath ;  but  Daniel  Burton  was  not 
listening,  in  any  case.  He  was  leading  the  way  to 
the  studio. 

In  the  studio  the  doctor  did  not  wait  for  ques- 
tions, but  plunged  at  once  into  his  story. 

"  Without  going  into  technical  terms,  Mr.  Burton, 
I  will  say  that  your  son  has  a  very  rare  trouble. 
There  is  only  one  known  relief,  and  that  is  a  certain 
very  delicate  operation.  Even  with  that,  the  chances 
are  about  fifty-fifty  that  he  regains  his  sight." 

"But  there's  a  chance?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  chance.  And,  anyway,  it  won't 
do  any  harm  to  try.  It  is  the  only  thing  possible, 
and,  if  it  fails  —  well,  he'll  only  be  blind,  as  he  is 
now.  It  must  be  done  right  away,  however.  Even 
now  it  may  be  too  late.  And  I  may  as  well  tell  you, 
if  it  does  n't  fail  —  there  is  a  strong  probability  of 
another  long  period  of  treatment  and  a  second  oper- 
ation, before  there's  a  chance  of  ultimate  success!" 

"Could  —  could  that  time  be  spent  here?"  Dan- 
iel Burton's  lips  had  grown  a  little  white. 

"No.  I  should  want  the  boy  where  I  could  see 
him  frequently  —  with  me,  in  fact.  And  that 
brings  me  to  what  I  was  going  to  propose.  With 
your  permission  I  will  take  the  boy  back  with  me 
next  week  to  Chicago,  and  operate  at  once.  And 
let  me  say  that  from  sheer  interest  in  the  case  I 
shall  be  glad  to  do  this  entirely  without  cost  to 

you." 

"Thank  you;  but  of  course  you  must  understand 


138  DAWN 

that  I  could  not  allow  that  for  a  moment."  A  pain- 
ful color  had  flamed  into  Daniel  Burton's  face. 

"Nonsense!  Don't  be  foolish,  man.  I  tell  you 
I'm  glad  to  do  it.  It'll  be  worth  it  to  me  —  the 
rarity  of  the  case  — " 

"  How  much  —  would  it  cost?  "  interposed  Daniel 
Burton  peremptorily,  with  an  unsteadiness  of  voice 
that  the  doctor  did  not  fail  to  read  aright. 

"Why,  man,  alive,  it  would  cost — "  With  his 
eyes  on  Daniel  Burton's  sternly  controlled  face, 
the  doctor  came  to  an  abrupt  pause.  Then,  turn- 
ing, he  began  to  tramp  up  and  down  the  room 
angrily.  "Oh,  hang  it  all,  man,  why  can't  you  be 
sensible?  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  any — "  Once 
again  his  tongue  stopped.  His  feet,  also,  had  come 
to  an  abrupt  pause.  He  was  standing  before  an  old 
colonial  mirror.  Then  suddenly  he  wheeled  about. 
"By  Jove,  there  is  something  I  want.  If  you'll  sell 
me  two  or  three  of  these  treasures  of  yours  here, 
you  will  be  more  than  cancelling  your  debt,  and  — " 

"Thank  you,"  interrupted  the  other  coldly,  but 
with  a  still  deeper  red  staining  his  face.  "As  I 
happen  to  know  of  the  unsalability  of  these  pictures, 
however,  I  cannot  accept  your  generosity  there, 
either." 

"Pictures!"  The  doctor,  turning  puzzled  eyes 
back  to  the  mirror,  saw  now  that  a  large  oil  paint- 
ing hung  beside  it  on  the  wall.  "I  was  n't  talking 
about  your  pictures,  man,"  he  scoffed  then.  "I  was 
looking  at  that  mirror  there,  and  I  'd  like  the  high- 
boy downstairs,  if  I  could  persuade  you  to  part 


A  SURPRISE  ALL  AROUND  139 

with  them,  and  —  Would  you  be  willing  to  part 
with  them?" 

"What  do  you  think!"  (So  marvelous  was  the 
change,  and  so  great  was  the  shining  glory  in 
Daniel  Burton's  face,  that  the  doctor  caught  him- 
self actually  blinking.)  "Do  you  think  there's  any- 
thing, anything  that  I  would  n't  part  with,  if  I 
thought  I  could  give  that  boy  a  chance?  Make 
your  own  selection,  doctor.  I  only  hope  you'll 
want  —  really  want  —  enough  of  them  to  amount 
to  something." 

The  doctor  threw  a  keen  glance  into  his  face. 

"Amount  to  something!  Don't  you  know  the 
value  of  these  things  here?  " 

Daniel  Burton  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  they  are  —  valuable.  But  I  shall 
have  to  confess  I  don't  know  very  much  about  it. 
They're  very  old,  I  can  vouch  for  that." 

"Old!  Humph!"  The  doctor  was  close  to  the 
mirror  now,  examining  it  with  the  appreciative 
eyes  of  the  real  lover  of  the  antique.  "I  should  say 
they  were.  Jove,  that's  a  beauty!  And  I've  got 
just  the  place  that's  hungering  for  it." 

"Good!  Suppose  we  look  about  the  house,  then, 
a  little,"  suggested  Daniel  Burton.  "Perhaps  we'll 
find  some  more  things  —  er  —  good  for  a  hungry 
stomach,  eh?"  And  with  a  light  on  his  face  such 
as  had  not  been  there  for  long  months  past,  Daniel 
Burton  led  the  way  from  the  studio. 


CHAPTER  XV 
AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND 

THAT  evening  Daniel  Burton  told  Susan. 
"Keith  is  to  go  home  with  Dr.  Stewart 
next  week.  The  doctor  will  operate  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Keith  will  live  at  the  sanatorium  connected 
with  the  doctor's  home  and  be  under  his  constant 
supervision." 

Susan  tried  to  speak,  but  instead  of  speaking 
she  burst  into  tears. 

"Why,  Susan!"  exclaimed  the  man. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  choked,  angrily  dashing 
the  drops  from  her  eyes.  "An*  me  cryin'  like  this 
when  I'm  gettin'  jest  what  I  want,  too!" 

"But  there's  no  certainty,  Susan,  that  it'll  be 
successful;  remember  that,"  warned  the  man,  his 
face  clouding  a  little.   "We  can  only  —  hope." 

"An'  there's  the  —  the  pay."  Susan  looked  up, 
her  voice  vibrating  with  fearful  doubts. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right."  The  man  lifted  his  head 
with  the  air  of  one  who  at  last  has  reached  firm 
ground  after  a  dangerous  crossing  on  thin  ice.  "The 
doctor's  going  to  buy  the  highboy  and  that  mirror 
in  the  studio,  and  —  oh,  several  other  things." 

"You  mean  that  old  chest  of  drawers  in  the 
settin'-room?"  scorned  Susan  openly. 

"Yes."   Daniel  Burton's  lips  twitched  a  little. 

"But  will  he  pay  anything  for  'em?  Mr.  Burton, 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND      141 

you  can't  get  nothin',  hardly,  for  second-hand  fur- 
niture. My  mother  had  a  stove  an'  a  real  nice  bed- 
stead, an'  a  red-plush  parlor  set,  an*  she  sold  'em. 
But  she  did  n't  get  anything  —  not  hardly  any 
thing,  for  'em;  an'  they  was  'most  new,  some  of  'em, 
too." 

"That's  the  trouble,  Susan  —  they  were  too 
new,  probably,"  laughed  the  man.  "It's  because 
these  are  old,  very  old,  that  he  wants  them,  I  sus- 
pect." 

"An'  he'll  really  pay  money  for  'em?"  Plainly 
Susan  still  had  her  doubts. 

"He  certainly  will.  I'd  be  almost  ashamed  to 
tell  you  how  much  he'll  pay,  Susan,"  smiled  the 
man.  "It  seemed  to  me  sheer  robbery  on  my  part. 
But  he  assures  me  they  are  very  valuable,  and  that 
he 's  more  than  delighted  to  have  them  even  at  that 
price." 

"Lan'  sakes!  An'  when  I'd  been  worry  in'  an' 
worryin'  so  about  the  money,"  sighed  Susan;  "an' 
now  to  have  it  fall  plump  into  your  lap  like  that. 
It  jest  shows  you  not  to  hunt  for  bridges  till  you 
get  your  feet  wet,  don't  it?  An'  he's  goin'  jest  next 
week?" 

"Yes.  The  doctor  and  his  daughter  start  Tues- 
day." 

"You  don't  mean  that  girl  Dorothy's  goin'  too?" 
Susan  had  almost  bounced  out  of  her  chair. 

"Why,  yes,  Dr.  Stewart  said  she  was.  What's 
the  matter?  " 

"Matter?   Matter  enough!   Why,  if  she  goes — ■ 


142  DAWN 

Say,  why  is  she  taggin'  along,  anyhow?"  demanded 
Susan  wrathfully. 

"Well,  I  should  n't  exactly  call  it  'taggin'  along' 
to  go  home  with  her  father  for  the  Christmas  vaca- 
tion," shrugged  the  man.  "As  I  understand  it, 
Dorothy's  mother  died  several  years  ago.  That's 
why  the  girl  is  here  in  the  East  so  much  with  her 
relatives,  going  to  school.  The  doctor's  home  has 
become  practically  a  sanatorium  —  not  the  most 
desirable  place  in  the  world  to  bring  up  a  young 
daughter  in,  I  should  say.  Let's  see,  how  old  is 
Miss  Dorothy?" 

"Sixteen,  Keith  says.  I  asked  him  one  day. 
She's  about  his  age." 

"Hm-m;  well,  however  that  may  be,  Susan,  I 
don't  see  how  we  can  help  ourselves  very  well. 
I  fancy  Miss  Dorothy '11  still  —  tag  along,"  he 
finished  whimsically. 

"Maybe,  an'  then  maybe  not,"  mumbled  Susan 
darkly,  as  she  turned  away. 

For  two  days  after  this  Susan's  kitchen,  and  even 
Keith  himself,  showed  almost  neglect;  persistently 
and  systematically  Susan  was  running  "down 
street"  every  hour  or  two  —  ostensibly  on  errands, 
yet  she  bought  little.  She  spent  most  of  her  time 
tramping  through  the  streets  and  stores,  scrutiniz- 
ing especially  the  face  of  every  young  girl  she 
met. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  she  met 
Dorothy  Parkman  coming  out  of  the  post-office. 

"  Well,  I  've  got  you  at  last,"  she  sighed,  "  though 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND      143 

I  'm  free  to  confess  I  was  beginnin'  to  think  I  never 
would  see  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  about  Keith,"  cried  the  girl  joyously. 
"Isn't  it  splendid!  I'm  so  glad!  And  he's  going 
home  with  us  right  away,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  An'  that's  what  —  that  is,  I 
wanted  — "  stammered  Susan,  growing  red  in  her 
misery.  "Oh,  Miss  Dorothy,  you  would  do  any- 
thing for  that  poor  blind  boy,  would  n't  you?" 

"Why,  y-yes,  of  course,"  faltered  Dorothy, 
stammering  in  her  turn. 

"I  knew  you  would.  Then  please  don't  go  home 
with  your  father  this  time." 

"Don't  go  home  —  with  —  my  father!"  ex- 
claimed the  girl,  in  puzzled  wonder. 

"No.  Because  if  you  do —  That  is —  Oh,  I 
know  it's  awful  for  me  to  say  this,  but  I've  got  to 
do  it  for  Keith.  You  see,  if  you  go,  —  Keith  won't." 

"If  I  go,  he  —  I  don't  think  —  I  quite  under- 
stand." The  girl  drew  back  a  little  haughtily.  Her 
face  showed  a  painful  flush. 

"No,  no,  of  course  you  don't!  An'  please,  please 
don't  look  like  that,"  begged  Susan.  "It's  jest 
this.  I  found  out.  I  wormed  it  out  of  him  the  other 
day  —  why  he  won't  let  you  come  to  see  him.  He 
says  that  once,  long  ago,  you  said  how  you  could  n't 
bear  to  look  at  blind  people,  an'  — " 

"Oh,  I  never,  never  could  have  said  such  a  cruel 
thing  to  —  to  a  blind  boy,"  interposed  the  girl. 

"He  was  n't  blind  then.  He  said  he  was  n't.  But 
it  was  when  he  was  'fraid  he  was  goin'  to  be  blind; 


144  DAWN 

an'  he  see  you  an'  Mazie  Sanborn  at  the  foot  of 
Harrington  Hill,  one  day.  It  was  just  after  the  old 
man  had  got  blind,  an'  Keith  had  been  up  to  see 
him.  It  seems  that  Keith  was  worry  in'  then  for 
fear  he  was  goin'  to  be  blind." 

"Kewas?" 

"Yes  —  things  blurred,  an'  all  that.  Well,  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  he  see  you  an'  Mazie,  an'  you 
shuddered  at  his  goin'  up  to  see  Mr.  Harrington, 
an'  said  how  could  he  bear  to  look  at  folks  that  was 
blind.  That  you  could  n't.  An'  he  never  forgot  it. 
Bein'  worried  for  fear  he  himself  was  goin'  blind, 
you  see,  he  was  especially  acceptable  to  anything 
like  that." 

"Oh,  but  I  —  I  —  At  home  I  always  did  hate  to 
see  all  the  poor  blind  people  that  came  to  see 
father,"  she  stammered.  "  But  it  —  it  was  only 
because  I  felt  so  bad  —  for  them.  And  that's  one 
reason  why  father  does  n't  keep  me  at  home 
any  more.  He  says  —  But,  about  Keith  —  I  — 
I  did  n't  mean  to  — "  Dorothy  came  to  a  helpless 
pause. 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  him," 
nodded  Susan.  "But  it  did  hurt  him.  An'  now  he 
always  thinks  of  it,  if  he  knows  you  're  'round.  You 
see,  worse 'n  anything  else,  he  hates  to  be  stared 
at  or  to  have  folks  think  he's  different.  There  ain't 
anything  I  can  ever  say  to  him  that  makes  him  half 
so  happy  as  to  act  as  if  he  wa'n't  blind." 

'Yes,  I  —  see,"  breathed  Dorothy,  her  eyes 
brimming. 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND     145 

"An'  so  now  you  won't  go,  will  you?  Because  if 
you  go,  he  won't." 

Miss  Dorothy  frowned  in  deep  thought  for  a 
moment. 

"I  shall  have  to  go,"  she  said  at  last,  slowly, 
"Father  is  just  counting  on  my  being  there  Christ^ 
mas,  and  he  is  so  lonely  —  I  could  n't  disappoint 
him.  But,  Keith  —  I  won't  have  to  see  much  of 
him,  anyway.  I'll  explain  it  to  father.  He  won't 
mind.  He's  used  to  his  patients  taking  notions. 
It'll  be  all  right.  Don't  worry,"  she  nodded,  her 
face  clearing. 

"But  you'll  have  to  be  with  Keith  —  some." 

"Oh,  yes,  a  little.  But  he  won't  know  who  I  am. 
I'm  just  Dr.  Stewart's  daughter.  Don't  you  see?" 

"But  —  he'll  know  your  voice." 

"I  shan't  talk  much.  Besides,  he  never  did  hear 
me  talk  much.  It  was  always  Mazie  that  talked 
most.  And  he  has  n't  heard  me  any  for  a  year  or 
more,  except  that  little  bit  that  day  at  the  house." 

"But  your  name,  Dorothy,"  still  argued  Susan 
dubiously. 

"Father  never  calls  me  that.  I'm  always  'Puss' 
to  him.  And  there  won't  be  anybody  else  with  us 
on  the  journey.  Don't  you  worry.  You  just  send 
Keith  right  along,  and  trust  me  for  the  rest.  You  '11 
see,"  she  nodded  again  brightly,  as  she  turned 
away. 

Susan  went  home  then  to  her  neglected  work. 
There  seemed  really  nothing  else  that  she  could  do. 
But  that  she  was  far  from  following  Miss  Dorothy's 


146  DAWN 

blithe  advice  "not  to  worry"  was  very  evident 
from  her  frowning  brow  and  preoccupied  air  all  the 
rest  of  the  time  until  Tuesday  morning  when  Keith 
went  —  until,  indeed,  Mr.  Burton  came  home  from 
seeing  Keith  off  on  his  journey.  Then  her  pent-up 
perturbation  culminated  in  an  onslaught  of  precipi- 
tate questions. 

"Was  he  all  right?  Was  that  girl  there?  Did  he 
know  who  she  was?  Do  you  think  he'll  find  out?" 

"One  at  a  time,  Susan,  one  at  a  time,"  laughed 
the  man.  "Yes,  he  was  all  right.  He  went  off  smil- 
ing, with  the  doctor's  arm  about  his  shoulders. 
Yes,  the  young  lady  was  there,  but  she  kept  well 
away  from  Keith,  so  far  as  I  could  see.  Friends  had 
come  evidently  to  see  her  off,  but  I  noticed  she  con- 
trived to  keep  herself  and  them  as  far  away  from 
Keith  as  possible.  Of  course,  on  the  journey  there  '11 
be  just  the  three  of  them.  The  test  will  come  then. 
But  I  would  n't  worry,  Susan.  Remember  your 
own  advice  about  those  bridges  of  yours.  He's 
started,  and  he's  with  the  doctor.  I  don't  think 
he'll  turn  back  now." 

"No,  I  s'pose  not,"  sighed  Susan.  "But  I  wish 
I  could  really  know  how  things  are!"  she  finished, 
as  she  took  up  her  work  again. 

Thirty-six  hours  later  came  the  telegram  from 
the  doctor  telling  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  a  week 
later  came  a  letter  from  Keith  himself  to  Susan.  It 
was  written  in  lead-pencil  on  paper  that  had  been 
carefully  perforated  so  as  to  form  lines  not  too  near 
together. 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND      147 

At  the  top  of  the  page  in  parentheses  were  these 
words : 

Dear  Susan  :  If  you  think  dad  would  like  it  you  may  read 
him  a  part  or  the  whole  of  this  letter.  I  was  afraid  I  would  n't 
write  very  well  and  that  he  would  n't  like  to  see  it.  So  I  write 
to  you  instead.  I  know  you  won't  mind. 

Below  came  the  letter. 

Dear  Susan:  How  do  you  and  dad  do?  I  am  well  and  hope 
you  are  the  same. 

This  is  an  awfully  pretty  place  with  trees  and  big  lawns 
all  around  it,  and  walks  and  seats  everywhere  in  the  summer, 
they  say.  We  aren't  sitting  outdoors  to-day,  though.  It's 
only  four  below ! 

We  had  a  jolly  trip  out.  The  doctor's  great.  He  spent 
half  his  time  talking  to  me  about  the  things  we  were  seeing 
out  the  window.  We  went  through  a  wonderful  country,  and 
saw  lots  of  interesting  things. 

The  doctor's  daughter  was  along,  too.  But  she  didn't 
have  much  to  say  on  the  trip.  I've  seen  quite  a  lot  of  her 
since  we  've  been  here,  though,  and  she 's  all  right.  At  first  I 
did  n't  like  her  very  well.  It  was  her  voice,  I  guess.  It  re- 
minded me  of  somebody  I  didn't  like  to  be  reminded  of. 
But  after  I  got  used  to  it  I  found  she  was  really  very  nice  and 
jolly.  She  knows  lots  of  games,  and  we  play  together  a  lot 
now.  She 's  so  different  from  that  girl  she  sounded  like  that 
I  don't  mind  her  voice  now.  And  I  don't  think  she  minds 
(here  a  rather  unsuccessful  erasure  showed  that  "playing 
with  me"  had  been  substituted  for  "being  with  blind  folks  "). 

She  gave  me  this  paper,  and  told  me  the  folks  at  home 
would  like  a  letter,  she  knew.  That's  why  I'm  writing  it. 
And  I  guess  that 's  enough  for  this  time. 

Love  to  all.  Keith  Burton 

P.S.  I  'm  going  to  have  the  operation  to-morrow,  but  they 
won't  know  for  quite  a  while  whether  it's  successful  or  not, 
the  doctor  says. 

Keith 


148  DAWN 

Susan  read  this  letter,  then  took  it  at  once  to 
the  studio  and  read  it  again  aloud. 

"Now  ain't  that  great?"  she  crowed,  as  soon  as 
she  had  finished. 

"  Y-yes,  but  he  did  n't  say  much  about  himself 
or  his  treatment,"  demurred  the  man. 

Susan  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Why,  yes,  he  did,  too!  Lan'  sakes,  Mr.  Burton, 
he  did  n't  talk  about  nothin'  else  but  himself  an' 
his  treatment,  all  the  way  through.  Oh,  I  know  he 
did  n't  say  anything  about  his  occultist  treatment, 
if  that 's  what  you  mean.  But  I  did  n't  do  no  worry- 
in'  about  that  part.  It  was  the  other  part." 

"The  other  part!" 

"Yes.  They're  treatin'  him  as  if  he  wa'n't  dif- 
ferent an'  queer.  An'  did  n't  you  notice  the  way  he 
wrote?  Happy  as  a  king  tellin'  about  what  he  saw 
on  the  way  out,  an'  the  wonderful  country  they 
went  through.  They  're  all  right  —  them  two  are. 
I  shan't  do  no  more  worryin'  about  Keith.  An'  her 
fixin'  that  paper  so  cute  for  him  to  write  on  —  I 
declare  I'm  that  zealous  of  her  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  Why  could  n't  Z.V  thought  of  that?"  she 
sighed,  as  she  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

Two  days  later  came  a  letter  from  the  doctor. 
The  operation  had  been  performed  and,  so  far  as 
they  could  judge,  all  was  well,  though,  as  Keith 
had  written,  the  real  results  would  not  show  until 
the  bandages  were  removed  some  time  later. 

When  the  schools  opened  again  in  January, 
Dorothy  Parkman  came  back  to  Hinsdale.  Susan 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND     149 

had  been  counting  the  days  ever  since  Christmas, 
for  she  knew  Dorothy  was  coming,  and  she  could 
scarcely  wait  to  see  her.  This  time,  however,  she 
did  not  have  to  tramp  through  the  streets  and 
stores  looking  for  her,  for  Miss  Dorothy  came  at 
once  to  the  house  and  rang  the  bell. 

"I  knew  you'd  want  to  hear  all  about  Mr. 
Keith,"  she  smiled  brightly  into  Susan's  eyes. 
"And  I'm  glad  to  report  that  he's  doing  all 
right." 

"Be  them  bandages  off  yet?  Do  you  mean  — 
he  can  see?"  demanded  Susan  excitedly,  leading 
the  way  to  the  sitting-room. 

"Oh,  no  —  no  —  not  that!"  cried  the  girl 
quickly.  "I  mean  —  he's  doing  all  right  so  far. 
It's  a  week  yet  before  the  bandages  can  be  re- 
moved, and  even  then,  he  probably  won't  see 
much  —  if  at  all.  There'll  have  to  be  another  one 
—  later  —  father  says  —  maybe  two  more." 

"Oh!"  Susan  fell  back,  plainly  disappointed. 
Then,  suddenly,  a  new  interest  flamed  into  her 
eyes. 

"An'  he  ain't  sensed  yet  who  you  are?"  she 
questioned. 

Miss  Dorothy  blushed,  and  Susan  noticed  sud- 
denly how  very  pretty  she  was. 

"No.  Though  I  must  confess  that  at  first,  when 
he  heard  my  voice,  he  looked  up  much  startled, 
and  even  rose  from  his  seat.  But  I  told  him  lots 
of  folks  thought  I  talked  like  Dorothy  Parkman; 
and  I  just  laughed  and  turned  it  off,  and  made 


150  DAWN 

nothing  of  it.  And  so  pretty  quick  he  made  noth- 
ing of  it,  too.  After  that  we  got  along  beauti- 
fully." 

"I  should  say  you  did!"  retorted  Susan,  almost 
enviously.  "An'  you  fixin'  up  that  paper  so  fine 
for  him  to  write  on!" 

Miss  Dorothy  blushed  again  —  and  again  Susan 
noticed  how  very  charming  was  the  combination 
of  brown  eyes  and  yellow-gold  hair. 

"Yes,  he  did  like  that  paper,"  smiled  the  young 
girl.  "He  never  mentioned  the  lines,  and  neither 
did  I.  When  I  first  suggested  the  letter  home  he 
was  all  ready  to  refuse,  I  could  see;  but  I  would  n't 
give  him  the  chance.  Before  he  could  even  speak  I 
had  thrust  the  paper  into  his  hands,  and  I  could 
see  the  wonder,  interest,  and  joy  in  his  face  as  his 
fingers  discovered  the  pricked  lines  and  followed 
their  course  from  edge  to  edge.  But  he  did  n't  let 
me  know  he  'd  found  them  —  not  much !  '  Well,  I 
don't  know  but  they  would  like  a  letter,'  was  all 
he  said,  casually. '  I  knew  then  that  I  had  won." 

"Well,  I  should  say  you  had.  But  how  did  you 
know  how?"  cried  Susan. 

"Oh,  you  told  me  first  that  I  must  talk  to  him 
as  if  he  were  not  blind.  Then  father  told  me  the 
same  thing.  He  said  lots  of  his  patients  were  like 
that.  So  I  always  tried  to  do  it  that  way.  And  it's 
wonderful  how,  when  you  give  it  a  little  thought, 
you  can  manage  to  tell  them  so  much  that  they 
can  turn  about  and  tell  somebody  else,  just  as  if 
they  really  had  seen  it." 


AGAIN  SUSAN  TAKES  A  HAND     151 

"I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan.  "An*  — 
Miss  Dorothy "  —  her  voice  grew  unsteady  — 
"he  really  is  goin'  to  see  by  an'  by,  ain't  he?" 

The  girl's  face  clouded. 

"They  are  n't  at  all  sure  of  that." 

"But  they  can't  tell  yet?"  Susan  had  grown  a 
little  white. 

"Oh,  no,  not  sure." 

"An'  they're  goin'  to  give  him  all  the  chances 
there  is?" 

"Certainly.  I  only  spoke  because  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  too  disappointed  if  —  if  we  lose.  You 
must  remember  that  fully  half  of  the  cases  do 
lose." 

Susan  drew  a  long  sigh.  Then,  determinedly  she 
lifted  her  chin. 

"Well,  I  like  to  think  we  ain't  goin'  to  belong  to 
that  half,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  WORRY  OF  IT 

THERE  was  a  letter  from  the  doctor  when  the 
bandages  were  removed.  Daniel  Burton  be- 
gan to  read  the  letter,  but  his  eyes  blurred  and  his 
hand  shook,  so  that  Susan  had  to  take  it  up  where 
he  had  dropped  it. 

Yet  the  letter  was  very  short. 

The  operation  had  been  as  successful,  perhaps,  as 
they  could  expect,  under  the  circumstances.  Keith 
could  discern  light  now  —  faintly,  to  be  sure,  but 
unmistakably.  He  was  well  and  happy.  Meanwhile 
he  was  under  treatment  for  the  second  operation 
to  come  later.  But  that  could  not  be  performed 
for  some  time  yet,  so  they  must  not  lose  their  pa- 
tience.  That  was  all. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  we  ought  to  be  glad  he  can  see 
light  even  a  little,"  sighed  Susan;  "but  I'm  free 
to  confess  I  was  hopin'  he  could  do  a  little  more 
than  that." 

"Yes,  so  was  I,"  said  Daniel  Burton.  And  Su- 
san, looking  at  his  face,  turned  away  without 
another  word.  There  were  times  when  Susan 
knew  enough  not  to  talk. 

Then  came  the  days  when  there  were  only 
Keith's  letters  and  an  occasional  short  note  from 
the  doctor  to  break  the  long  months  of  waiting. 


THE  WORRY  OF  IT  153 

In  the  Burton  homestead  at  Hinsdale,  living  was 
reduced  to  the  simplest  formula  possible.  On  the 
whole,  there  was  perhaps  a  little  more  money. 
Dunning  tradesmen  were  not  so  numerous.  But 
all  luxuries,  and  some  things  that  were  almost  ne- 
cessities, were  rigorously  left  out.  And  the  money 
was  saved  always  —  for  Keith.  A  lodger,  a  young 
law  student,  in  Keith's  old  room  helped  toward 
defraying  the  family  expenses. 

Susan  had  given  up  trying  to  sell  her  "poems." 
She  had  become  convinced  at  last  that  a  cruel  and 
unappreciative  editorial  wall  was  forever  to  bar  her 
from  what  she  still  believed  was  an  eagerly  await- 
ing public.  She  still  occasionally  wrote  jingles  and 
talked  in  rhyme;  but  undeniably  she  had  lost  her 
courage  and  her  enthusiasm.  As  she  expressed  it 
to  Mrs.  McGuire,  she  did  not  feel  "a  mite  like  a 
gushing  siphon  inside  her  now." 

As  the  summer  came  and  passed,  Susan  and 
Mrs.  McGuire  talked  over  the  back-yard  fence 
even  more  frequently.  Perhaps  because  Susan  was 
lonely  without  Keith.  Perhaps  because  there  was 
so  much  to  talk  about. 

First  there  was  Keith. 

Keith  was  still  under  treatment  preparatory  to 
the  second  operation.  He  had  not  responded  quite 
as  they  had  hoped,  the  doctor  said,  which  meant 
that  the  operation  must  be  postponed  for  perhaps 
several  months  longer. 

All  this  Susan  talked  over  with  Mrs.  McGuire; 
and  there  was  always,  too,  the  hushed  discussion 


154  DAWN 

as  to  what  would  happen  if,  after  all,  it  failed,  and 
Keith  came  home  hopelessly  blind. 

"But  even  that  ain't  the  worst  thing  that  could 
happen,"  maintained  Susan  stoutly.  "I  can  tell 
you  Keith  Burton  ain't  goin'  to  let  a  little  thing 
like  that  floor  him ! " 

Mrs.  McGuire,  however,  did  not  echo  Susan's 
optimistic  prophecies.  But  Mrs.  McGuire's  own 
sky  just  now  was  overcast,  which  perhaps  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  Mrs.  McGuire  had  trou- 
bles of  her  own. 

It  was  the  summer  of  1914,  and  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  August  had  come  and  passed,  firing  the 
match  that  was  destined  to  set  the  whole  world 
ablaze.  Mrs.  McGuire's  eldest  son  John  —  of  whom 
she  boasted  in  season  and  out  and  whom  she  loved 
with  an  all-absorbing  passion  —  had  caught  the 
war-fever,  gone  to  Canada,  and  enlisted.  Mrs. 
McGuire  herself  was  a  Canadian  by  birth,  and 
all  her  family  still  lived  there.  She  was  boasting 
now  more  than  ever  about  John;  but,  proud  as  she 
was  of  her  soldier  boy,  his  going  had  plunged  her 
into  an  abyss  of  doubt  and  gloom. 

"He'll  never  come  back,  he'll  never  come  back," 
she  moaned  to  Susan.  "I  can  just  feel  it  in  my 
bones  that  he  won't." 

"Shucks,  a  great,  strong,  healthy  boy  like  John 
McGuire!  Of  course,  he'll  come  back,"  retorted 
Susan.  "Besides,  likely  the  war '11  be  all  over  with 
'fore  he  gets  there,  anyhow.  An'  as  for  feelin'  it  in 
your  bones,  Mis'  McGuire,  that's  a  very  facetious 


THE  WORRY  OF  IT  155 

doctrine,  an'  ain't  no  more  to  be  depended  upon 
than  my  flour  sieve  for  an  umbrella.  They  're  gay 
receivers  every  time  —  bones  are.  Why,  Ian'  sakes, 
Mis'  McGuire,  if  all  things  happened  that  my 
bones  told  me  was  goin'  to  happen,  there  would 
n't  none  of  us  be  livin'  by  now,  nor  the  sun  shinin', 
nor  the  moon  moonin'.  I  found  out,  after  awhile, 
how  they  did  n't  happen  half  the  time,  an'  I  wrote 
a  poem  on  it,  like  this: 

Trust  'em  not,  them  fickle  bones, 
Always  talkin'  moans  an'  groans. 
Jest  as  if  inside  of  you, 
Lived  a  thing  could  tell  you  true, 
Whether  it  was  goin'  to  rain, 
Whether  you  would  have  a  pain, 
Whether  him  or  you  would  beat, 
Whether  you'd  have  'nuf  to  eat! 
Bones  was  give  to  hold  us  straight, 
Not  to  tell  us  'bout  our  Fate." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  sighed  Mrs.  McGuire. 
"But  when  I  think  of  John,  my  John,  lyin' there 
so  cold  an'  still  — " 

"Well,  he  ain't  lyin'  there  yet,"  cut  in  Susan 
impatiently.  "Time  enough  to  hunt  bears  when 
you  see  their  tracks.  Mis'  McGuire,  can't  you  see 
that  worry  in'  don't  do  no  good?  You'll  have  it  all 
for  no  thin',  if  he  don't  get  hurt;  an'  if  he  does, 
you  '11  have  all  this  extra  for  nothin',  anyway,  — 
that  you  did  n't  need  till  the  time  came.  Ever  hear 
my  poem  on  worryin'?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  —  Susan  never 
asked  such  questions  with  a  view  to  having  them 
answered  —  she  chanted  this : 


156  DAWN 

"Worry  never  climbed  a  hill, 
Worry  never  paid  a  bill, 
Worry  never  led  a  horse  to  water. 
Worry  never  cooked  a  meal, 
Worry  never  darned  a  heel, 
Worry  never  did  a  thing  you'd  think  it  oughter!'* 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  sighed  Mrs.  Mc- 
Guire  again.  "But  John  is  so  —  well,  you  don't 
know  my  John.  Nobody  knows  John  as  I  do. 
He'd  have  made  a  big  man  if  he'd  lived  —  John 
would." 

"'If  he'd  lived'!"  repeated  Susan  severely. 
"Well,  I  never,  Mis'  McGuire,  if  you  ain't  talkin' 
already  as  if  he  was  dead!  You  don't  have  to 
begin  to  write  his  obliquity  notice  yet,  do  you?" 

"But  he  is  dead,"  moaned  Mrs.  McGuire, 
catching  at  the  one  word  in  Susan's  remark  and 
paying  no  attention  to  the  rest.  "He's  dead  to 
everything  he  was  goin'  to  do.  He  was  ambi- 
tious, —  my  John  was.  He  was  always  studyin' 
and  readin'  books  nights  an'  Sundays  an'  holi- 
days, when  he  did  n't  have  to  be  in  the  store. 
He  was  takin'  a  course,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know  —  one  of  them  respondin'  schools," 
nodded  Susan.  "John's  a  clever  lad,  he  is,  I'm  free 
to  confess." 

Under  the  sunshine  of  Susan's  appreciation  Mrs. 
McGuire  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"He  was  studyin'  so  he  could  'mount  to  some- 
thin'  —  John  was,"  declared  Mrs.  McGuire.  "He 
was  goin'  to  be"  —  she  paused  and  threw  a  hur- 
ried look  over  her  shoulder  —  "he  was  keepin'  it 


THE  WORRY  OF  IT  157 

secret,  but  he  won't  mind  my  tellin'  now.  He  was 
goin'  to  be  a  —  writer  some  day,  he  hoped." 

Susan's  instantly  alert  attention  was  most  flat- 
tering. 

"Sho!  You  don't  say!  Poems?" 

"I  don't  know."  Mrs.  McGuire  drew  back  and 
spoke  a  little  coldly.  Now  that  the  secret  was  out, 
Mrs.  McGuire  was  troubled  evidently  with  qualms 
of  conscience.  "He  never  said  much.  He  did  n't 
want  it  talked  about." 

Susan  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Yes,  I  know.  'T  ain't  so  pleasant  if  folks 
know  —  when  you  can't  sell  'em.  Now  in  my 
case  — " 

But  Mrs.  McGuire,  with  a  hurried  word  about 
the  beans  in  her  oven,  had  hastened  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  McGuire  was  not  the  only  one  with  whom 
Susan  was  having  long  talks.  September  had  come 
bringing  again  the  opening  of  the  schools,  which 
in  turn  had  brought  Miss  Dorothy  Parkman  back 
to  Hinsdale. 

Miss  Dorothy  was  seventeen  now,  and  prettier 
than  ever  —  in  Susan's  opinion.  She  had  been 
again  to  her  father's  home;  and  Susan  never  could 
hear  enough  of  her  visit  or  of  Keith.  Nor  was  Miss 
Dorothy  evidently  in  the  least  loath  to  talk  of  her 
visit  —  or  of  Keith.  Patiently,  even  interestedly, 
each  time  she  saw  Susan,  she  would  repeat  for  her 
the  details  of  Keith's  daily  life,  telling  everything 
that  she  knew  about  him. 

"But  I've  told  you  all  there  is,  before,"  she  said 


158  '       DAWN 

laughingly  one  day  at  last,  when  Susan  had  stopped 
her  as  she  was  going  by  the  house.  "I've  told  it 
several  times  before." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have,"  nodded  Susan,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath;  "but  I  always  get  somethin'  new 
in  it,  just  as  I  do  in  the  Bible,  you  know.  You 
always  tell  me  somethin'  you  had  n't  mentioned 
before.  Now,  to-day  —  you  never  told  me  be- 
fore about  them  dominoes  you  an'  him  played  to- 
gether." 

"Did  n't  I?"  An  added  color  came  into  Miss 
Dorothy's  cheeks.  "Well,  we  played  them  quite 
a  lot.  Poor  fellow!  Time  hung  pretty  heavily  on 
his  hands,  and  we  had  to  do  something  for  him. 
There  were  other  games,  too,  that  we  played 
together." 

"But  how  can  he  play  dominoes,  an'  those 
others,  when  —  when  he  can't  see?" 

"Oh,  the  points  of  the  dominoes  are  raised,  of 
course,  and  the  board  has  little  round  places  sur- 
rounded by  raised  borders  for  him  to  keep  his 
dominoes  in.  The  cards  are  marked  with  little 
raised  signs  in  the  corners,  and  there  are  dice 
studded  with  tiny  nailheads.  The  checker-board 
has  little  grooves  to  keep  the  men  from  sliding.  Of 
course,  we  already  had  all  these  games,  you  know. 
They  use  them  for  all  father's  patients.  But,  of 
course,  Keith  had  to  be  taught  first." 

"And  you  taught  him?" 

"Well,  I  taught  him  some  of  them."  The  added 
color  was  still  in  Miss  Dorothy's  cheeks. 


THE  WORRY  OF  IT  159 

"An*  you  told  me  last  week  you  read  to  him." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.   I  read  to  him  quite  a  lot." 

The  anxiously  puckered  frown  on  Susan's  face 
suddenly  dissolved  into  a  broad  smile. 

"Lan'  sakes,  if  that  ain't  the  limit!"  she 
chuckled. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  bridled  Miss 
Dorothy,  looking  not  exactly  pleased. 

"Nothin'.  It's  only  that  I  was  jest  a-thinkin' 
how  you  was  foolin'  him." 

"Fooling  him?"  Miss  Dorothy  was  looking  de- 
cidedly not  pleased  now. 

"Yes,  an'  you  all  the  time  Dorothy  Parkman, 
an'  he  not  knowin'  it." 

"Oh!"  The  color  on  Miss  Dorothy's  face  was 
one  pink  blush  now.  Then  she  laughed  lightly. 
"After  all,  do  you  know?  —  I  hardly  ever  thought 
of  that,  after  the  very  first.  He  called  me  Miss 
Stewart,  of  course  —  but  lots  of  folks  out  there  do 
that.  They  don't  think,  or  don't  know,  about  my 
name  being  different,  you  see.  The  patients,  coming 
and  going  all  the  time,  know  me  as  the  doctor's 
daughter,  and  naturally  call  me  'Miss  Stewart.' 
So  it  does  n't  seem  so  queer  when  Mr.  Keith  does 
it." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Susan  with  glowing  satisfac- 
tion. "An'  now  here's  to  hopin'  he  won't  never 
find  out  who  you  really  be!" 

"Is  he  so  very  bitter,  then,  against  —  Dorothy 
Parkman?"  The  girl  asked  the  question  a  little 
wistfully. 


160  DAWN 

"He  jest  is,"  nodded  Susan  with  unflattering 
emphasis.  "If  you'd  heard  him  when  he  jest  per- 
sisted that  he  would  n't  have  anybody  that  was 
Dorothy  Parkman's  father  even  look  at  his  eyes, 
you  'd  have  thought  so,  I  guess.  An'  —  why,  he 
even  wrote  about  it  'way  back  last  Christmas  —  I 
mean,  when  he  first  told  us  about  you.  He  said  the 
doctor  had  a  daughter,  an'  she  was  all  right;  but  he 
did  n't  like  her  at  all  at  first,  'cause  her  voice  kept 
remindin'  him  of  somebody  he  did  n't  want  to  be 
reminded  of." 

"Did  he  really  write  —  that?" 

"Them's  the  identifyin'  words,"  avowed  Susan. 
"So  you'll  jest  have  to  keep  it  secret  who  you  be, 
you  see,"  she  warned  her. 

"Yes,  I  —  see,"  murmured  the  girl.  All  the 
pretty  color  had  quite  gone  from  her  face  now,  leav- 
ing it  a  little  white  and  strained-looking.  "I'll 
try  —  to." 

"Of  course,  when  he  gets  back  his  sight  he'll  find 
out  —  that  is,  Miss  Dorothy,  he  is  going  to  get  it 
back,  ain't  he?"  Susan's  own  face  now  had  become 
a  little  white  and  strained-looking. 

Miss  Dorothy  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know,  Susan;  but  I'm  —  afraid." 

"Afraid!  You  don't  mean  he  ain't  goin'  to?" 
Susan  caught  Miss  Dorothy's  arm  in  a  vise-like 
grip. 

"No,  no,  not  that;  but  we  are  n't  —  sure.  And 
—  and  the  symptoms  are  n't  quite  so  good  as  they 
were,"  hurried  on  the  girl  a  bit  feverishly. 


THE  WORRY  OF  IT  161 

"But  I  thought  he  could  see  —  light,"  faltered 
Susan. 

"He  could,  at  first,  but  it's  been  getting  dimmer 
and  dimmer,  and  now"  —  the  girl  stopped  and  wet 
her  lips  —  "there's  to  be  a  second  operation,  you 
know.  Father  hopes  to  have  it  by  Christmas,  or 
before;  but  I  know  father  is  afraid  —  that  is  —  he 
thinks—" 

"He  don't  like  the  way  things  is  goin',"  cut  in 
Susan  grimly.    "Ain't  that  about  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,"  faltered  Miss  Dorothy,  wet- 
ting her  lips  again.  "And  when  I  think  of  that 
boy  — "  She  turned  away  her  head,  leaving  her 
sentence  unfinished. 

"Well,  we  ain't  goin'  to  think  of  it  till  it  comes," 
declared  Susan  stoutly.  "An'  then  —  well,  if  it 
does  come,  we've  all  got  to  set  to  an'  help  him  for- 
get it.   That's  all." 

"Yes,  of  —  course,"  murmured  the  girl,  turning 
away  again.  And  this  time  she  turned  quite  away 
and  went  on  down  the  street,  leaving  Susan  by  the 
gate  alone. 

"Nice  girl,  an'  a  mighty  pretty  one,  too,"  whis- 
pered Susan,  looking  after  the  trim  little  figure  in  its 
scarlet  cap  and  sweater.  "An'  she's  got  a  good 
kind  heart  in  her,  too,  a-carin'  like  that  about  that 
poor  boy's  bein'  — " 

Susan  stopped  short.  A  new  look  had  come  to  her 
face  —  a  look  of  wonder,  questioning,  and  dawn- 
ing delight.  "Lan'  sakes,  why  hain't  I  never 
thought  of  that  before?"  she  muttered,  her  eyes 


162  DAWN 

still  on  the  rapidly  disappearing  little  red  figure 
down  the  street.  "Oh,  'course  they're  nothin'  but 
babies  now,  but  by  an'  by — !  Still,  if  he  ever 
found  out  she  was  Dorothy  Parkman,  an'  of  course 
he  'd  have  to  find  it  out  if  he  married  —  Oh,  Ian' 
sakes,  what  fools  some  folks  be!" 

With  which  somewhat  cryptic  statement  Susan 
turned  and  marched  irritably  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
DANIEL  BURTON  TAKES  THE  PLUNGE 

DR.  STEWART'S  second  operation  on  Keith's 
eyes  took  place  late  in  November.  It  was 
not  a  success.  Far  from  increasing  his  vision,  it 
lessened  it.  Only  dimly  now  could  he  discern  light 
at  all. 

In  a  letter  to  Daniel  Burton,  Dr.  Stewart  stated 
the  case  freely  and  frankly,  yet  he  declared  that  he 
had  not  given  up  hope  —  yet.  He  had  a  plan  which, 
with  Mr.  Burton's  kind  permission,  he  would  carry 
out.    He  then  went  on  to  explain. 

In  Paris  there  was  a  noted  specialist  in  whom  he 
had  great  confidence.  He  wished  very  much  that 
this  man  could  see  Keith.  To  take  Keith  over  now, 
however,  as  war  conditions  were,  would,  of  course, 
be  difficult  and  hazardous.  Besides,  as  he  happened 
to  know,  this  would  not  be  necessary,  for  the  great 
man  was  coming  to  this  country  some  time  in  May. 
To  bring  Keith  to  his  attention  then  would  be  a 
simple  matter,  and  a  chance  well  worth  waiting 
for.  Meanwhile,  the  boy  was  as  comfortable  where 
he  was  as  he  could  be  anywhere,  and,  moreover, 
there  were  certain  treatments  which  should  still  be 
continued.  With  Daniel  Burton's  kind  permission, 
therefore,  the  doctor  would  keep  Keith  where  he 
was  for  the  present,  pending  the  arrival  of  the  great 
specialist. 


164  DAWN 

It  was  a  bitter  blow.  For  days  after  the  letter 
came,  Daniel  Burton  shut  himself  up  in  his  studio, 
refusing  to  see  any  one  but  Susan,  and  almost  re- 
fusing to  see  her.  Susan,  indeed,  heart-broken  as 
she  was  herself,  had  no  time  to  indulge  her  own 
grief,  so  busy  was  she  trying  to  concoct  something 
that  would  tempt  her  employer  to  break  a  fast  that 
was  becoming  terrifying  to  her. 

Then  came  Keith's  letter.  He  wrote  cheerfully, 
hopefully.  He  told  of  new  games  that  he  was  play- 
ing, new  things  of  interest  that  he  was  "seeing." 
He  said  nothing  whatever  about  the  operation.  He 
did  say  that  there  was  a  big  doctor  coming  from 
Paris,  whom  he  was  going  to  "see"  in  May,  how- 
ever.  That  was  all. 

When  the  doctor's  letter  had  come,  telling  of  the 
failure  of  the  second  operation,  Susan  had  read  it 
and  accepted  it  with  sternly  controlled  eyes  that 
did  not  shed  one  tear.  But  when  Keith's  letter  came, 
not  even  mentioning  the  operation,  her  self-control 
snapped,  and  she  burst  openly  into  tears. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  sobbed,  in  answer  to  Daniel 
Burton's  amazed  exclamation.  "When  I  think  of 
the  way  that  blessed  boy  is  holdin'  up  his  head 
an'  marchin'  Straight  on;  an'  you  an'  me  here  — 
oh,  Ian'  sakes,  what's  the  use  of  tryirC  to  say  it!" 
she  despaired,  turning  and  hurrying  from  the  room. 

In  December  Dr.  Stewart  came  on  again  to  take 
his  daughter  back  for  the  holidays.  He  called  at 
once  to  see  Mr.  Burton,  and  the  two  had  a  long 
conference  in  the  studio,  while  Susan  feverishly 


DANIEL  BURTON  TAKES  PLUNGE    165 

moved  from  room  to  room  downstairs,  taking  up 
and  setting  down  one  object  after  another  in  the 
aimless  fashion  of  one  whose  fingers  are  not  con- 
trolled by  the  mind. 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Susan  did  not  wait 
for  Daniel  Burton  to  seek  her  out.  She  went  at  once 
to  the  studio. 

"No,  he  had  nothing  new  to  say  about  Keith," 
began  the  man,  answering  the  agonized  question 
in  her  eyes  before  her  lips  could  frame  the  words. 

"But  did  n't  he  say  nothin'?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  said  a  great  deal  —  but  it  was  only 
a  repetition  of  what  he  had  said  before  in  the  letter." 
Daniel  Burton  spoke  wearily,  constrainedly.  His 
face  had  grown  a  little  white.  "The  doctor  bought 
the  big  sofa  in  the  hall  downstairs,  and  the  drop- 
leaf  table  in  the  dining-room." 

"Humph!  But  will  he  pay  anything  for  them 
things?" 

"Yes,  he  will  pay  well  for  them.  And  —  Susan." 

"Yes,  sir."  Something  in  the  man's  face  and 
voice  put  a  curious  note  of  respect  into  Susan's 
manner  as  sudden  as  it  was  unusual. 

"I've  been  intending  to  tell  you  for  some  time. 
I  —  I  shall  want  breakfast  at  seven  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning.  I  —  I  am  going  to  work  in 
McGuire's  store." 

"You  are  goin'  to  —  what?"  Susan's  face  was 
aghast. 

"To  work,  I  said,"  repeated  Daniel  Burton 
sharply.    "I  shall  want  breakfast  at  seven  o'clock, 


166  DAWN 

Susan."  He  turned  away  plainly  indicating  that  for 
him  the  matter  was  closed. 

But  for  Susan  the  matter  was  not  closed. 

"Daniel  Burton,  you  ain't  goin'  to  demean  your- 
self like  that!"  she  gasped;  —  "an  artistical  gen- 
tleman like  you!  Why,  I'd  rather  work  my  hands 
to  the  bones  — " 

"That  will  do,  Susan.   You  may  go." 

And  Susan  went.  There  were  times  when  Susan 
did  go. 

But  not  yet  for  Susan  was  the  matter  closed. 
Only  an  hour  later  Mrs.  McGuire  "ran  over"  with 
a  letter  from  her  John  to  read  to  Susan.  But  barely 
had  she  finished  reading  the  letter  aloud,  when  the 
real  object  of  her  visit  was  disclosed  by  the  trium- 
phant: 

"Well,  Susan  Betts,  I  notice  even  an  artist  has 
to  come  down  to  bein'  a  *  common  storekeeper' 
sometimes." 

Susan  drew  herself  up  haughtily. 

"Of  course,  Mis'  McGuire,  't  ain't  for  me  to  pre- 
tense that  I  don't  know  what  you're  inferrin'  to. 
But  jest  let  me  tell  you  this :  it  don't  make  no  dif- 
ference how  many  potatoes  ah'  molasses  jugs  an' 
kerosene  cans  Daniel  Burton  hands  over  the  counter 
he  won't  never  be  jest  a  common  storekeeper.  He  '11 
be  ihinkirC  flowers  an'  woods  an'  sunsets  jest  the 
same.  Furthermore  an'  moreover,  in  my  opinion 
it's  a  very  honorary  an'  praiseful  thing  for  him  to 
do,  to  go  out  in  the  hedges  an'  byways  an'  earn 
money  like  that,  when,  if  the  world  only  knew 


DANIEL  BURTON  TAKES  PLUNGE    167 

enough  to  know  a  good  thing  when  they  see  it, 
they'd  be  buyin'  them  pictures  of  his,  an'  not 
subjugate  him  to  the  mystification  of  earnin'  his 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  forehead." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious  me,  Susan  Betts,  how  you  do 
run  on,  when  you  get  started!"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
McGuire  impatiently,  yet  laughingly.  "An*  I 
might  have  known  what  you'd  say,  too,  if  I'd 
stopped  to  think.  Well,  I  must  be  goin',  anyhow.  I 
only  came  over  to  show  you  the  letter  from  my 
John.  I  'm  sure  I  wish  't  was  him  comin'  back  to  his 
old  place  behind  the  counter  instead  of  your  Daniel 
Burton,"  she  sighed.  "I'd  buy  every  picture  he 
ever  painted  (if  I  had  the  money),  if  't  would  only 
bring  my  John  back,  away  from  all  those  awful 
bombs  an'  shells  an'  shrapnel  that  he's  always 
writin'  about." 

"Them  be  nice  letters  he  writes,  I'm  free  to  con- 
fess," commented  Susan  graciously.  "Not  that 
they  tell  so  much  what  he's  doin',  though;  but  I 
s'pose  they're  censured,  anyhow  —  all  them  letters 
be." 

Mrs.  McGuire,  her  eyes  dreamily  fixed  out  the 
window,  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so;  but  there's  a  lot  left  —  there's 
always  a  lot  left.  And  everything  he  writes  I  can 
just  see.  It  was  always  like  that  with  my  John.  Let 
him  go  downtown  an'  come  back  —  you'd  think 
he'd  been  to  the  circus,  the  wonderful  things  he'd 
tell  me  he  'd  seen  on  the  way.  An'  he  'd  set  'em  out 
an'  describe  'em  until  I  could  just  see  'em  myself! 


168  DAWN 

I  '11  never  forget.  One  day  he  went  to  a  fire.  The 
old  Babcock  house  burned,  an'  he  saw  it.  He  was 
twelve  years  old.  I  was  sick  in  bed,  an'  he  told 
me  about  it.  I  can  see  him  now,  standin'  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  his  cheeks  red,  his  eyes  sparklin', 
an'  his  little  hands  flourishin'  right  an'  left  in  his 
excitement.  As  he  talked,  I  could  just  see  that  old 
house  burn.  I  could  hear  the  shouts  of  the  men, 
the  roar  an*  cracklin'  of  the  flames,  an'  see  'em 
creepin',  creepin',  gamin',  gainin' — !  Oh,  it  was 
wonderful  —  an'  there  I  was  right  in  my  own  bed, 
all  the  time.  It  was  just  the  way  he  told  it.  That 's 
why  I  know  he  could  have  been  a  writer.  He  could 
make  others  see  —  everything.  But  now  —  that 's 
all  over  now.  He  '11  never  be  —  anything.  I  can  see 
him.  I  can  see  all  that  horrible  battle-field  with 
the  reelin'  men,  the  flames,  the  smoke,  the  burstin' 
shells,  an',  oh,  God  —  my  John!  Will  he  ever,  ever 
come  back — to  me?" 

"There,  there,  Mis'  McGuire,  I  jest  would  n't — " 
But  Mrs.  McGuire,  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  and 
her  eyes  half  covered  with  her  hand,  turned  away 
and  stumbled  out  of  the  kitchen. 

Susan,  looking  after  her,  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"Worry  never  climbed  a  hill, 
Worry  never  — 

There's  some  times  when  it's  frank  impertinence 
to  tell  folks  not  to  worry,"  she  muttered  severely 
to  herself,  attacking  the  piled-up  dishes  before 
her. 

Daniel  Burton  went  to  work  in  McGuire's  grocery 


DANIEL  BURTON  TAKES  PLUNGE    169 

store  the  next  morning,  after  a  particularly  appe- 
tizing breakfast  served  to  him  by  a  silent,  red-eyed, 
but  very  attentive  Susan. 

"An'  't  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  lamb  to  the 
slaughter-house, "  Susan  moaned  to  the  law-student 
lodger  when  she  met  him  on  the  stairs  at  eight 
o'clock  that  morning.  "An'  if  you  want  to  see  a 
real  slaughter-house,  you  jest  come  in  here,"  she 
beckoned  him,  leading  the  way  to  the  studio. 

"But  —  but  —  that  is  —  well  —  "  stammered  the 
young  fellow,  looking  not  a  little  startled  as  he 
followed  her,  with  half -reluctant  feet. 

In  the  studio  Susan  flourished  accusing  arms. 

"Look  at  that,  an'  that,  an*  that!"  she  cried. 
"Why,  it's  like  jest  any  extraordinary  common- 
sense  room  now,  that  anybody  might  have,  with 
them  pictures  all  put  away,  an'  his  easel  hid  behind 
the  door,  an'  not  a  brush  or  a  cube  of  paint  in  sight 
—  an'  him  dolin'  out  vinegar  an'  molasses  down  to 
that  old  store.  I  tell  you  it  made  me  sick,  Mr. 
Jenkins,  sick!" 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  so,"  murmured  Mr.  Jenkins, 
vaguely. 

"Well,  it  did.  Why,  it  worked  me  up  so  I  jest 
sat  right  down  an'  made  up  a  poem  on  it.  I  could  n't 
help  it.  An'  it  came  easy,  too  —  'most  like  the  spon- 
taneous combustion  kind  that  I  used  to  write, 
only  I  made  it  free  verse.  You  know  that's  all  the 
rage  now.  Like  this,"  she  finished,  producing  from 
somewhere  about  her  person  a  half-sheet  of  note- 
paper. 


170  DAWN 

"Alone  an'  dark 
The  studio 
Waited: 

Waited  for  the  sun  of  day. 
But  when  it  rose, 
Alas! 

No  lovely  pictures  greeted 
The  fiery  gob. 
Only  their  backs  showed 
White  an'  sorry  an'  some  dusty. 
No  easel  sprawled  long  legs 
To  trip 

An'  make  you  slip. 
No  cubes  of  pig-lent  gray 
Or  black, 

Nor  any  other  color  lent  brightness 
To  this  dank  world. 

An'  he  —  the  artist?  The  bright  soul  who 
Bossed  this  ranch? 
Alas! 

Doomed  to  hide  his  bright  talons 
In  smelly  kegs  of  kerosene 
An'  molasses  brown  an'  sticky. 
Alas,  that  I  should  see  an' 
Know  this 
Day. 

There,  now,  ain't  that  about  the  way  'tis?"  she 
demanded  feelingly. 

"Er  —  yes,  yes,  it  is.  That's  so."  Mr.  Jenkins 
was  backing  out  of  the  room  and  looking  toward 
the  stairway.  Mr.  Jenkins  had  been  a  member  of 
the  Burton  household  long  enough  to  have  learned 
to  take  Susan  at  her  own  valuation,  with  no  ques- 
tions asked.  "Yes,  that's  so,"  he  repeated,  as  he 
plunged  down  the  stairs. 

To  Daniel  Burton  himself  Susan  made  no  further 
protests  or  even  comments  —  except  the  silent 
comment  of  eager  service  with  some  favorite  dish 


DANIEL  BURTON  TAKES  PLUNGE    171 

for  every  meal.  As  Christmas  drew  near,  and  Dan- 
iel Burton's  hours  grew  longer,  Susan  still  made 
no  audible  comment;  but  she  redoubled  her  efforts 
to  make  him  comfortable  the  few  hours  left  to  him 
at  home. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"MISS  STEWART" 

IT  was  just  after  Christmas  that  another  letter 
came  from  Keith.  It  was  addressed  as  usual 
to  Susan.  Keith  had  explained  in  his  second  letter 
that  he  was  always  going  to  write  to  Susan,  so 
that  she  might  read  it  to  his  father,  thus  saving 
him  the  disagreeableness  of  seeing  how  crooked 
and  uneven  some  of  his  lines  were.  His  father  had 
remonstrated — feebly;  but  Keith  still  wrote  to 
Susan. 

Keith  had  been  improving  in  his  writing  very 
rapidly,  however,  since  those  earliest  letters,  and 
most  of  his  letters  now  were  models  of  even  lines 
and  carefully  formed  characters.  But  this  letter 
Susan  saw  at  once  was  very  different.  It  bore  un- 
mistakable marks  of  haste,  agitation,  and  lack  of 
care.  It  began  abruptly,  after  the  briefest  of  salu- 
tations: 

Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  you  knew  Miss  Stewart?  She  says 
she  knows  you  real  well,  and  father,  too,  and  that  she 's  been 
to  the  house  lots  of  times,  and  that  she 's  going  back  to  Hins- 
dale next  week,  and  that  she  is  going  to  school  there  this  year, 
and  will  graduate  in  June. 

Oh,  she  did  n't  tell  me  all  this  at  once,  you  bet  your  sweet 
life.  I  had  to  worm  it  out  of  her  little  by  little.  But  what  I 
want  to  know  is,  why  you  folks  did  n't  tell  me  anything  about 
it  —  that  you  knew  her,  and  all  that?  But  you  never  said  a 
word  —  not  a  word.  Neither  you  nor  dad.  But  she  says  she 
knows  dad  real  well.  Funny  dad  never  mentioned  it! 


MISS  STEWART  173 

Miss  Stewart  sure  is  a  peach  of  a  girl  all  right  and  the  best 
ever  to  me.  She's  always  hunting  up  new  games  for  me  to 
play.  She's  taught  me  two  this  time,  and  she's  read  two 
books  to  me.  There's  a  new  fellow  here  named  Henty,  and 
we  play  a  lot  together.  I  am  well,  and  getting  along  all  right. 

Guess  that 's  all  for  this  time.  Love  to  all. 

Keith 

P.S.  Now  don't  forget  to  tell  me  why  you  never  said  a 
thing  that  you  knew  Miss  Stewart. 

K. 

"Well,  now  I  guess  the  kettle  is  in  the  fire,  all 
right!"  ejaculated  Susan,  folding  the  letter  with 
hands  that  shook  a  little. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Daniel  Burton. 

"Why,  about  that  girl,  of  course.  He'll  find 
out  now  she's  Dorothy  Parkman.  He  can't  help 
findin'  it  out!" 

"Well,  what  if  he  does?"  demanded  the  man,  a 
bit  impatiently. 

"'  What  if  he  does?  ' "  repeated  Susan,  with  lofty 
scorn.  "I  guess  you'll  find  what 't  is  when  that  boy 
does  find  out  she's  Dorothy  Parkman,  an'  then 
won't  have  nothin'  more  to  do  with  her,  nor  her 
father,  nor  her  father's  new  doctor,  nor  anything 
that  is  hers." 

"Nonsense,  Susan,  don't  be  silly,"  snapped  the 
man,  still  more  irritably.  "'Nor  her  father,  nor 
her  father's  new  doctor,  nor  anything  that  is  hers, ' 
indeed !  You  sound  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  were 
chanting  a  catechism!  What's  the  matter?  Does 
n't  the  boy  like  Miss  Dorothy?" 

"Why,  Daniel  Burton,  you  know  he  don't!  I  told 


174  DAWN 

you  long  ago  all  about  it,  when  I  explained  how 
we'd  got  to  give  her  father  a  resumed  name,  so 
Keith  would  n't  know,  an'  — " 

"  Oh,  that!  What  she  said  about  not  wanting  to 
see  blind  people?  Nonsense,  Susan,  that  was  years 
ago,  when  they  were  children!  Why,  Keith's  a 
man,  nearly.  You  're  forgetting  —  he  '11  be  eighteen 
next  June,  Susan." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Burton."  Susan's  lips 
snapped  together  grimly  and  her  chin  assumed  its 
most  defiant  tilt.  "I  ain't  sayin'  he  ain't.  But 
there's  some  cases  where  age  don't  make  a  mite  of 
difference,  an'  you'll  find  this  is  one  of  'em.  You 
mark  my  words,  Daniel  Burton.  I  have  seen  jest 
as  big  fools  at  eighteen,  an'  eighty,  for  that  matter, 
as  I  have  at  eight.  'T  ain't  a  matter  of  decree  at 
all.  Keith  Burton  got  it  into  his  head  when  he  was 
first  goin'  blind  that  Dorothy  Parkman  would  hate 
to  look  at  him  if  ever  he  did  get  blind;  an'  he  just 
vowed  an'  determined  that  if  ever  he  did  get  that 
way,  she  should  n't  see  him.  Well,  now  he 's  blind. 
An'  if  you  think  he's  forgot  what  Dorothy  Park- 
man  said,  you'd  oughter  been  with  me  when  she 
came  to  see  him  with  Mazie  Sanborn  one  day,  or 
even  when  they  just  called  up  to  him  on  the  piazza 
one  mornin'." 

"Well,  well,  very  likely,"  conceded  the  man 
irritably;  "but  I  still  must  remind  you,  Susan, 
that  all  this  was  some  time  ago.  Keith's  got  more 
sense  now." 

"Maybe  —  an'  then  again  maybe  not.  However, 


MISS  STEWART  175 

we  '11  see  —  what  we  will  see,"  she  mumbled,  as  she 
left  the  room  with  a  little  defiant  toss  of  her  head. 

Susan  did  not  answer  Keith's  letter  at  once. 
Just  how  she  was  going  to  answer  that  particular 
question  concerning  their  acquaintance  with  "Miss 
Stewart"  she  did  not  know,  nor  could  she  get  any 
assistance  from  Daniel  Burton  on  the  subject. 

"Why,  tell  him  the  truth,  of  course,"  was  all 
that  Daniel  Burton  would  answer,  with  a  shrug, 
in  reply  to  her  urgent  appeals  for  aid  in  the  mat- 
ter. This,  Susan,  in  utter  horror,  refused  to  do. 

"But  surely  you  don't  expect  to  keep  it  secret 
forever  who  she  is,  do  you?"  demanded  Daniel 
Burton  scornfully  one  day. 

"Of  course  I  don't.  But  I'm  going  to  keep  it 
jest  as  long  as  I  can,"  avowed  Susan  doggedly. 
"An'  maybe  I  can  keep  it  —  till  he  gets  his  blessed 
eyes  back.   I  shan't  care  if  he  does  find  out  then." 

"I  don't  think  —  we'll  any  of  us  —  mind  any- 
thing then,  Susan,"  said  the  man  softly,  a  little 
brokenly.  And  Susan,  looking  into  his  face,  turned 
away  suddenly,  to  hide  her  own. 

That  evening  Susan  heard  that  Dorothy  Park- 
man  was  expected  to  arrive  in  Hinsdale  in  two  days. 

"I'll  jest  wait,  then,  an'  intervene  the  young 
lady  my  own  self,"  she  mused,  as  she  walked  home 
from  the  post-office.  "This  tryin'  to  settle  Dor- 
othy Parkman's  affairs  without  Dorothy  Parkman 
is  like  havin'  omelet  with  omelet  left  out,"  she 
finished,  nodding  to  herself  all  in  the  dark,  as  she 
turned  in  at  the  Burton  gateway. 


176  DAWN 

Dorothy  Parkman  came  two  days  later.  As  was 
usual  now  she  came  at  once  to  the  house.  Susan, 
on  the  watch,  met  her  at  the  door,  before  she  could 
touch  the  bell. 

"Come  in,  come  in!  My,  but  I'm  glad  to  see 
you!"  exclaimed  Susan  fervently,  fairly  pulling  her 
visitor  into  the  house.  "Now  tell  me  everything  — 
every  single  thing." 

"Why,  there  is  n't  much  to  tell,  Susan.  Mr. 
Keith  is  about  the  same,  and  — " 
N\"No,  no,  I  mean  —  about  you"  interrupted 
Susan,  motioning  the  girl  to  a  chair,  and  drawing 
her  own  chair  nearer.  "About  your  bein'  in  Hins- 
dale an'  knowin'  us,  an'  all  that,  an'  his  finding  it 
out." 

"Oh,  that!"  The  color  flew  instantly  into  Miss 
Dorothy's    cheeks.     "Then   he's  —  he's   written 

you?" 

"  Written  us !  I  should  say  he  had !  An'  he  wants 
to  know  why  we  hain't  told  him  we  know  you. 
An',  Ian'  sakes,  Miss  Dorothy,  what  can  we  tell 
him?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know,  Susan." 

"But  how'd  you  get  in  such  a  mess?  How'd  he 
find  out  to  begin  with?"  demanded  the  woman. 

Miss  Dorothy  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"Oh,  it  was  my  fault,  of  course.  I — forgot. 
Still,  it's  a  wonder  I  had  n't  forgotten  before. 
You  see,  inadvertently,  I  happened  to  drop  a  word 
about  Mr.  Burton.  'Do  you  know  my  dad?'  he 
burst  out.    Then  he  asked  another  and  another 


MISS  STEWART  177 

question.  Of  course,  I  saw  right  away  that  I  must 
turn  it  off  as  if  I  supposed  he  'd  known  it  all  the  time. 
It  would  n't  do  to  make  a  secret  of  it  and  act  em- 
barrassed because  he'd  found  it  out,  for  of  course 
then  he'd  suspect  something  wrong  right  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  admitted  Susan  wor- 
riedly. "But,  Ian'  sakes,  look  at  us!  What  are  we 
goin'  to  say?  Now  he  wants  to  know  why  we 
hain't  told  him  about  knowin'  you." 

"I  don't  know,  Susan,  I  don't  know."  The  girl 
shook  her  head  and  caught  her  breath  a  bit  con- 
vulsively. "Of  course,  when  I  first  let  it  go  that 
I  was  'Miss  Stewart,'  I  never  realized  where  it  was 
going  to  lead,  nor  how  —  how  hard  it  might  be  to 
keep  it  up.  I've  been  expecting  every  day  he'd 
find  out,  from  some  one  there.  But  he  has  n't  — 
yet.  Of  course,  Aunt  Hattie,  who  keeps  house  for 
father,  is  in  the  secret,  and  she  'd  never  give  it  away. 
Most  of  the  patients  don't  know  much  about  me, 
anyway.  You  see,  I've  never  been  there  much. 
They  just  know  vaguely  of  'the  doctor's  daughter,' 
and  they  just  naturally  call  her  'Miss  Stewart.'" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see,  I  see,"  nodded  Susan,  again, 
still  worriedly.  "But  what  I'm  thinkin'  of  is  us, 
Miss  Dorothy.  How  are  we  goin'  to  get  'round  not 
mentionin'  you  all  this  time,  without  his  findin' 
out  who  you  be  an'  demandin'  a  full  exposition  of 
the  whole  affair.  Say,  look  a-here,  would  it  be  — 
be  very  bad  if  he  did  find  out  you  was  Dorothy 
Parkman?" 

"I'm  afraid  —  it  would  be,  Susan."    The  girl 


178  DAWN 

spoke  slowly,  a  bit  unsteadily.  She  had  gone  a 
little  white  at  the  question. 

"Has  he  said  anything?" 

"Nothing,  only  he —  When  we  were  talking 
that  day,  and  he  was  flinging  out  those  questions 
one  after  another,  about  Hinsdale,  and  what  I 
knew  of  it,  he  —  he  asked  if  I  knew  Dorothy 
Parkman." 

"Miss  Dorothy,  he  did  n't!" 

"But  he  did.  It  was  awful,  Susan.  I  felt  like  — 
like—" 

"Of  course  you  did,"  interposed  Susan,  her  face 
all  sympathy,  "a-sailin'  under  false  premises  like 
that,  an'  when  you  were  perfectly  innocuous,  too, 
of  any  sinfulness,  an'  was  jest  doing  it  for  his  best 
good  an*  peace  of  mind.  Lan'  sakes,  what  a  pre- 
diction to  be  in!  What  did  you  say?" 

"Why,  I  said  yes,  of  course.  I  had  to  say  yes. 
And  I  tried  to  turn  it  off  right  away,  and  not  talk 
any  more  about  it.  But  that  was  easy,  anyway, 
for  —  for  Mr.  Keith  himself  dropped  it.  But  I 
knew,  by  the  way  he  looked,  and  said  'yes>  I  know 
her,  too,'  in  that  quiet,  stern  way  of  his,  that  — 
that  I  'd  better  not  let  him  find  out  I  was  she  — 
not  if  I  wanted  to  —  to  stay  in  the  room,"  she 
finished,  laughing  a  little  hysterically. 

"Lan'  sakes,  you  don't  say!"  frowned  Susan. 

"Yes;  and  so  that's  what  makes  me  know  that 
whatever  you  do,  you  must  n't  let  him  know  that 
I  am  Dorothy  Parkman,"  cried  the  girl  feverishly; 
"not  now  —  not  until  he's  seen  the  Paris  doctor, 


MISS  STEWART  179 

for  there's  no  knowing  what  he'd  do.  He'd  be  so 
angry,  you  see.  He'd  never  forgive  me,  for  on  top 
of  all  the  rest  is  the  deceit  —  that  I ' ve  been  with 
him  all  these  different  times,  and  let  him  call  me 
*  Miss  Stewart.'" 

"But  how  can  we  do  that?"  demanded  Susan. 

"Why,  just  turn  it  off  lightly.  Say,  of  course, 
you  know  me;  and  seem  surprised  that  you  never 
happened  to  mention  it  before.  Tell  him,  oh,  yes, 
I  come  quite  often  to  tell  you  and  Mr.  Burton  how 
he 's  getting  along,  and  all  that.  Just  make  nothing 
of  it  —  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  not  worth 
mentioning.  See?  Then  go  on  and  talk  about  some- 
thing else.  That'll  fix  it  all  right,  I 'm  sure,  Susan." 

"Hm-m;  maybe  so,  an'  then  again  maybe  not," 
observed  Susan,  with  frowning  doubt.  "As  I  was 
tellin'  Mr.  Burton  this  mornin'  we've  got  to  be 
'specially  careful  about  Keith  jest  now.  It's  the 
most  hypercritical  time  there  can  be  —  with  him 
waitin'  to  see  that  big  doctor,  an'  all  —  an'  he 
must  n't  be  upset,  no  matter  what  happens,  nor 
how  many  white  lies  we  have  to  prognosticate 
here  at  home." 

"I  guess  that's  so,  Susan."  Miss  Dorothy's 
eyes  were  twinkling  now.  "And,  by  the  way, 
where  is  Mr.  Burton?    I  have  n't  seen  him  yet." 

"He  ain't  here." 

"You  don't  mean  he  has  gone  out  of  town?" 
The  girl  had  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  crisp 
terseness  of  Susan's  reply. 

"Oh,  no,  he's  —  in  Hinsdale." 


180  DAWN 

"Painting  any  new  pictures  these  days?"  Miss 
Dorothy  was  on  her  feet  to  go.  She  asked  the 
question  plainly  not  for  information,  but  to  fill 
the  embarrassing  pause  that  Susan's  second  reply 
had  brought  to  the  conversation. 

"No,  he  ain't,"  spoke  up  Susan  with  a  vehe- 
mence as  disconcerting  as  it  was  sudden.  "He 
ain't  paintin'  nothin',  an'  he  ain't  drawin'  nothin' 
neither  —  only  molasses  an'  vinegar  an'  kerosene. 
He's  clerkin'  down  to  McGuire's  grocery  store,  if 
you  want  to  know.  That's  where  he  is." 

"Why  —  Susan!" 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  don't  have  to  say  nothin', 
Miss  Dorothy.  Besides,  I  would  n't  let  you  say  it 
if  you  did.  I  won't  let  nobody  say  it  but  me.  But 
I  will  say  this  much.  When  folks  has  set  one  foot 
in  the  cemetery,  an'  a  lame  one  at  that,  an'  can't 
see  nor  hear  nor  think  straight,  I  don't  think  it's 
no  hilarious  offense  to  wish  they'd  hurry  up  an' 
get  to  where  they  could  have  all  them  handy  fa- 
cilities back  again,  an'  leave  their  money  to  folks 
what  has  got  their  full  complaint  of  senses,  ready 
to  enjoy  life,  if  they  get  a  chance.  Oh,  yes,  I  know 
you  don't  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about,  an'  per- 
haps it's  jest  as  well  you  don't,  Miss  Dorothy.  I 
had  n't  oughter  said  it,  anyhow.  Well,  I  s'pose 
I've  got  to  go  write  that  letter  to  Keith  now. 
Seein'  as  how  you've  come  I  can't  put  it  off  no 
longer.  Goodness  only  knows,  though,  what  I'm 
goin'  to  say,"  she  sighed,  as  her  visitor  nodded 
back  a  wistful-eyed  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A  MATTER  OF  LETTERS 

SUSAN  said  afterward,  in  speaking  of  that 
spring,  that  "  't  was  nothin'  but  jest  one  seri- 
ous of  letters."  And,  indeed,  life  did  seem  to  be 
mostly  made  up  of  letters. 

At  the  sanatorium  Keith  was  waiting  for  spring 
and  the  new  doctor;  and  that  the  waiting  was  prov- 
ing to  be  a  little  nerve-racking  was  proved  by  the 
infrequency  of  his  letters  home,  and  the  shortness 
and  uncommunicativeness  of  such  as  did  come. 

Letters  to  him  from  Hinsdale  were  longer  and 
were  invariably  bright  and  cheery.  Yet  they  did 
not  really  tell  so  much,  after  all.  To  be  sure,  they 
did  contain  frequent  reference  to  "your  Miss 
Stewart,"  and  gave  carefully  casual  accounts  of 
what  she  did  and  said.  In  the  very  first  letter 
Susan  had  hit  upon  the  idea  of  always  referring  to 
the  young  lady  as  "your  Miss  Stewart." 

"Then  we  won't  be  tellin'  no  lies,"  she  had  ex- 
plained to  Mr.  Burton,  "'cause  she  is  his  'Miss 
Stewart.'  See?  She  certainly  don't  belong  to  no 
one  else  under  that  name  —  that's  sure!" 

But  however  communicative  as  regards  "Miss 
Stewart"  the  letters  were,  they  were  very  far  from 
that  as  regarded  some  other  matters.  For  instance : 
neither  in  Daniel  Burton's  letters,  nor  in  Susan's, 
was   there   any  reference   to   the   new   clerk   in 


182  DAWN 

McGuire's  grocery  store.  So  far  as  anything  that 
Keith  knew  to  the  contrary-,  his  father  was  still 
painting  unsalable  pictures  in  the  Burton  home- 
stead studio. 

But  even  these  were  not  all  the  letters  that 
spring.  There  were  the  letters  of  John  McGuire 
from  far-away  France  —  really  wonderful  letters 
—  letters  that  brought  to  the  little  New  England 
town  the  very  breath  of  the  battle-field  itself,  the 
smell  of  its  smoke,  the  shrieks  of  its  shells.  And 
with  Mr.  Burton,  with  Susan,  with  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood indeed,  Mrs.  McGuire  shared  them.  They 
were  even  printed  occasionally  in  the  town's 
weekly  newspaper.  And  they  were  talked  of  every- 
where, day  in  and  day  out.  No  wonder,  then,  that, 
to  Susan,  the  spring  seemed  but  a  "serious  of 
letters." 

It  was  in  May  that  the  great  Paris  doctor  was 
expected;  but  late  in  April  came  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Stewart  saying  that,  owing  to  war  conditions, 
the  doctor  had  been  delayed.  He  would  not  reach 
this  country  now  until  July  —  which  meant  two 
more  months  of  weary  waiting  for  Keith  and  for 
Keith's  friends  at  home. 

It  was  just  here  that  Susan's  patience  snapped. 

"  When  you  get  yourself  screwed  up  to  stand  jest 
so  much,  an'  then  they  come  along  with  jest  a  little 
more,  somethin"s  got  to  break,  I  tell  you.  Well, 
I've  broke." 

Whether  as  a  result  of  the  "break"  or  not,  Susan 
did  not  say,  neither  did  she  mention  whether  it  was 


A  MATTER  OF  LETTERS  183 

to  assuage  her  own  grief  or  to  alleviate  Keith's;  but 

whatever  it  was,  Susan  wrote  these  verses  and  sent 

them  to  Keith: 

BY  THE  DAY 

When  our  back  is  nigh  to  breakin', 
An'  our  strength  is  nearly  gone, 
An'  along  there  comes  the  layin' 
Of  another  burden  on  — 

If  we'll  only  jest  remember, 
No  matter  what's  to  pay, 
That 't  is  n't  yet  December, 
An'  we  're  livin'  by  the  day. 

'Most  any  one  can  stand  it  — 
What  jest  to-day  has  brought. 
It's  when  we  try  to  lump  it, 
An'  take  it  by  the  lot! 

Why,  any  back  would  double, 
An'  any  legs'll  bend, 
If  we  pile  on  all  the  trouble 
Meant  to  last  us  till  the  end! 

So  if  we'll  jest  remember, 
Half  the  woe  from  life  we'll  rob 
If  we'll  only  take  it  "by  the  day," 
An'  not  live  it  "  by  the  job." 

"Of  course  that  "t  is  n't  yet  December'  is  poem 
license,  and  hain't  really  got  much  sense  to  it," 
wrote  Susan  in  the  letter  she  sent  with  the  verses. 
"I  put  it  in  mostly  to  rhyme  with  'remember.' 
(There  simply  was  n't  a  thing  to  rhyme  with  that 
word !)  But,  do  you  know,  after  I  got  it  down  I  saw 
it  really  could  mean  somethin',  after  all  —  kind  of 
diabolical-like  for  the  end  of  life,  you  know,  like 
December  is  the  end  of  the  year. 


184  DAWN 

"  Well,  anyhow,  they  done  me  lots  of  good,  them 
verses  did,  an'  I  hope  they  will  you." 

In  June  Dorothy  Parkman  was  graduated  from 
the  Hinsdale  Academy.  Both  Mr.  Burton  and 
Susan  attended  the  exercises,  though  not  together. 
Then  Susan  sat  down  and  wrote  a  glowing  account 
of  the  affair  to  Keith,  dilating  upon  the  fine  show- 
ing that  "your  Miss  Stewart"  made. 

"  It  can't  last  forever,  of  course  —  this  subtractin' 
Miss  Stewart's  name  for  Dorothy  Parkman,"  she 
said  to  Mr.  Burton,  when  she  handed  him  the  let- 
ter to  mail.  "But  I'm  jest  bound  an'  determined 
it  shall  last  till  that  there  Paris  doctor  gets  his 
hands  on  him.  An'  she  ain't  goin'  back  now  to  her 
father's  for  quite  a  spell  —  Miss  Dorothy,  I  mean," 
further  explained  Susan.  "I  guess  she  don't  want 
to  take  no  chances  herself  of  his  findin'  out  —  jest 
yet,"  declared  Susan,  with  a  sage  wag  of  her  head. 
"Anyhow,  she's  had  an  inspiration  to  go  see  a  girl 
down  to  the  beach,  an'  she's  goin'.  So  we're  safe 
for  a  while.  But,  oh,  if  July'd  only  hurry  up  an' 
come!" 

And  yet,  when  July  came  — 

They  were  so  glad,  afterward,  that  Dr.  Stewart 
wrote  the  letter  that  in  a  measure  prepared  them 
for  the  bad  news.  He  wrote  the  day  before  the 
operation.  He  said  that  the  great  oculist  was  im- 
mensely interested  in  the  case  and  eager  to  see 
what  he  could  do  —  though  he  could  hold  out  no 
sort  of  promise  that  he  would  be  able  to  accomplish 
the  desired  results.    Dr.   Stewart  warned  them, 


A  MATTER  OF  LETTERS  185 

therefore,  not  to  expect  anything  —  though,  of 
course,  they  might  hope.  Hard  on  the  heels  of  the 
letter  came  the  telegram.  The  operation  had  been 
performed  —  and  had  failed,  they  feared.  They 
could  not  tell  surely,  however,  until  the  bandages 
were  removed,  which  would  be  early  in  August. 
But  even  if  it  had  failed,  there  was  yet  one  more 
chance,  the  doctor  wrote.  He  would  say  nothing 
about  that,  however,  until  he  was  obliged  to. 

In  August  he  wrote  about  it.  He  was  obliged  to. 
The  operation  had  been  so  near  a  failure  that  they 
might  as  well  call  it  that.  The  Paris  oculist,  how- 
ever, had  not  given  up  hope.  There  was  just  one 
man  in  the  world  who  might  accomplish  the  seem- 
ingly impossible  and  give  back  sight  to  Keith's 
eyes  —  at  least  a  measure  of  sight,  he  said.  This 
man  lived  in  London.  He  had  been  singularly  suc- 
cessful in  several  of  the  few  similar  cases  known  to 
the  profession.  Therefore,  with  their  kind  permis- 
sion, the  great  Paris  doctor  would  take  Keith  back 
with  him  to  his  brother  oculist  in  London.  He 
would  like  to  take  ship  at  once,  as  soon  as  arrange- 
ments could  possibly  be  made.  There  would  be 
delay  enough,  anyway,  as  it  was.  So  far  as  any 
question  of  pay  was  concerned,  the  indebtedness 
would  be  on  their  side  entirely  if  they  were  privi- 
leged to  perform  the  operation,  for  each  new  case 
of  this  very  rare  malady  added  knowledge  of  untold 
value  to  the  profession,  hence  to  humanity  in  gen- 
eral. He  begged,  therefore,  a  prompt  word  of  per- 
mission from  Keith's  father. 


186  DAWN 

"Don't  you  give  it,  don't  you  give  it!"  chattered 
Susan,  with  white  lips,  when  the  proposition  was 
made  clear  to  her. 

"Why,  Susan,  I  thought  you'd  be  willing  to  try 
anything,  anything  —  for  Keith's  sake." 

"An'  so  I  would,  sir,  anything  in  season.  But 
not  this.  Do  you  think  I'd  set  that  blessed  boy 
afloat  on  top  of  them  submarinos  an'  gas-mines, 
an'  to  go  to  London  for  them  German  Zepherin's 
to  rain  down  bombs  an'  shrapnel  on  his  head,  an' 
he  not  bein'  able  to  see  a  thing  to  dodge  'em  when 
he  sees  'em  comin'?  Why,  Daniel  Burton,  I'm 
ashamed  of  you  —  to  think  of  it,  for  a  minute!" 

"There,  there,  Susan,  that  will  do.  You  mean 
well,  I  know;  but  this  is  a  matter  that  I  shall  have 
to  settle  for  myself,  for  myself,"  he  muttered  with 
stern  dignity,  rising  to  his  feet.  Yet  when  he  left 
the  room  a  moment  later,  head  and  shoulders 
bowed,  he  looked  so  old  and  worn  that  Susan,  gaz- 
ing after  him,  put  a  spasmodic  hand  to  her  throat. 

"An'  I  jest  know  I  'm  goin'  to  lose  'em  both  now," 
she  choked  as  she  turned  away. 

Keith  went  to  London.  Then  came  more  weeks 
of  weary,  anxious  waiting.  Letters  were  not  so 
regular  now,  nor  so  frequent.  Definite  news  was 
hard  to  obtain.  Yet  in  the  end  it  came  all  too  soon 
—  and  it  was  piteously  definite. 

Keith  was  coming  home.  The  great  London 
doctor,  too,  had  —  failed. 


CHAPTER  XX 
WITH  CHIN  UP 

KEITH  came  in  April.  The  day  before  he  was 
expected,  Susan,  sweeping  off  the  side  porch, 
was  accosted  by  Mrs.  McGuire. 

It  was  the  first  warm  spring-like  day,  and  Mrs. 
McGuire,  bareheaded  and  coatless,  had  opened 
the  back-yard  gate  and  was  picking  her  way  across 
the  spongy  turf. 

"My,  but  isn't  this  a  great  day,  Susan!"  she 
called,  with  an  ecstatic,  indrawn  breath.  "I  only 
wish  it  was  as  nice  under  foot." 

"Hain't  you  got  no  rubbers  on?"  Susan's  dis- 
approving eyes  sought  Mrs.  McGuire's  feet. 

Mrs.  McGuire  laughed  lightly. 

"No.  That's  the  one  thing  I  leave  off  the  first 
possible  minute.  Some  way,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  helpin' 
along  the  spring." 

"Humph!  Well,  I  should  help  along  somethin' 
'sides  spring,  I  guess,  if  I  did  it.  Besides,  it  strikes 
me  rubbers  ain't  the  only  thing  you're  leavin'  off." 
Susan's  disapproving  eyes  had  swept  now  to  Mrs. 
McGuire's  unprotected  head  and  shoulders. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  cold.  I  love  it.  As  if  this  glorious 
spring  sunshine  could  do  any  one  any  harm !  Susan, 
it 's  Lieutenant  McGuire,  now !  I  came  over  to  tell 
you.   My  John's  been  promoted." 

"Sho,  you  don't  say!  Ain't  that  wonderful, 
now?"  Susan's  broom  stopped  in  midair. 


188  DAWN 

"Not  when  you  know  my  John!"  The  proud 
mother  lifted  her  head  a  little.  "'For  bravery  an' 
valiant  service*  —  Lieutenant  McGuire!  Oh, 
Susan,   Susan,   but  I'm  the  proud  woman  this 


mornin 


"Yes,  of  course,  of  course,  I  ain't  wonderin'  you 
be!"  Susan  drew  a  long  sigh  and  fell  to  sweeping 
again. 

Mrs.  McGuire,  looking  into  Susan's  face,  came  a 
step  nearer.   Her  own  face  sobered. 

"An'  me  braggin'  like  this,  when  you  folks — ! 
I  know  —  you're  thinkin'  of  that  poor  blind  boy. 
An'  it's  just  to-morrow  that  he  comes,  is  n't  it?" 

Susan  nodded  dumbly. 

"An'  it's  all  ended  now  an'  decided  —  he  can't 
ever  see,  I  s'pose,"  went  on  Mrs.  McGuire.  "I 
heard  'em  talkin'  down  to  the  store  last  night.  It 
seems  terrible." 

"Yes,  it  does."  Susan  was  sweeping  vigorously 
now,  over  and  over  again  in  the  same  place. 

"I  wonder  how  —  he'll  take  it." 

Susan  stopped  sweeping  and  turned  with  a  jerk. 

"Take  it?  He's  got  to  take  it,  hain't  he?"  she 
demanded  fiercely.  "He's  got  to  I  An'  things  you've 
got  to  do,  you  do.  That's  all.  You'll  see.  Keith 
Burton  ain't  no  quitter.  He'll  take  it  with  his 
head  up  an'  his  shoulders  braced.  I  know.  You'll 
see.  Don't  I  remember  the  look  on  his  blessed  face 
that  day  he  went  away,  an'  stood  on  them  steps 
there,  callin'  back  his  cheery  good-bye?" 

"But,  Susan,  there  was  hope  then,  an'  there 


WITH  CHIN  UP  189 

is  n't  any  now  —  an*  you  have  n't  seen  him  since. 
You  forget  that." 

"No,  I  don't,"  retorted  Susan  doggedly.  "I 
ain't  f orgettin'  nothin'.  But  you  '11  see ! " 

"  An'  he 's  older.  He  realizes  more.  Why,  he  must 
be  —  How  old  is  he,  anyway?" 

"He'll  be  nineteen  next  June." 

"Almost  a  man.  Poor  boy,  poor  boy  —  an'  him 
with  all  these  years  of  black  darkness  ahead  of 
him!  I  tell  you,  Susan,  I  never  appreciated  my 
eyes  as  I  have  since  Keith  lost  his.  Seems  as  though 
anybody  that's  got  their  eyes  had  n't  ought  to 
complain  of  —  anything.  I  was  thinkin'  this 
mornin',  comin'  over,  how  good  it  was  just  to  see 
the  blue  sky  an'  the  sunshine  an'  the  little  buds 
breakin'  through  their  brown  jackets.  Why,  Susan, 
I  never  realized  how  good  just  seeirC  was  —  till  I 
thought  of  Keith,  who  can't  never  see  again." 

"Yes.  Well,  I've  got  to  go  in  now,  Mis'  Mc- 
Guire.    Good-bye." 

Words,  manner,  and  tone  of  voice  were  discour- 
tesy itself;  but  Mrs.  McGuire,  looking  at  Susan's 
quivering  face,  brimming  eyes,  and  set  lips,  knew 
it  for  what  it  was  and  did  not  mistake  it  for  —  dis- 
courtesy. But  because  she  knew  Susan  would  pre- 
fer it  so,  she  turned  away  with  a  light  "Yes,  so've 
I.  Good-bye!"  which  gave  no  sign  that  she  had 
seen  and  understood. 

Dr.  Stewart  came  himself  with  Keith  to  Hins- 
dale and  accompanied  him  to  the  house.  It  had 
been  the  doctor's  own  suggestion  that  neither  the 


190  DAWN 

boy's  father  nor  Susan  should  meet  them  at  the 
train.  Perhaps  the  doctor  feared  for  that  meeting. 
Naturally  it  would  not  be  an  easy  one.  Naturally, 
too,  he  did  not  want  to  add  one  straw  to  Keith's 
already  grievous  burden.  So  he  had  written: 

I  will  come  to  the  house.  As  I  am  a  little  uncertain  as  to 
the  train  I  can  catch  from  Boston,  do  not  try  to  meet  me  at 
the  station. 

"Jest  as  if  we  could  n't  see  through  that  sub- 
terranean!" Susan  had  muttered  to  herself  over 
the  dishes  that  morning.  "I  guess  he  knows  what 
train  he 's  goin'  to  take  all  right.  He  jest  did  n't 
want  us  to  meet  him  an'  make  a  scenic  at  the  depot. 
I  wonder  if  he  thinks  I  would!  Don't  he  think  I 
knows  anything?" 

But,  after  all,  it  was  very  simple,  very  quiet,  very 
ordinary.  Dr.  Stewart  rang  the  bell  and  Susan 
went  to  the  door.  And  there  they  stood:  Keith, 
big  and  strong  and  handsome  (Susan  had  forgotten 
that  two  years  could  transform  a  somewhat  awk- 
ward boy  into  so  fine  and  stalwart  a  youth);  the 
doctor,  pale,  and  with  an  apprehensive  uncertainty 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  Susan,  how  are  you?"  Keith's  voice  was 
strong  and  steady,  and  the  outstretched  hand 
gripped  hers  with  a  clasp  that  hurt. 

Then,  in  some  way  never  quite  clear  to  her,  Su- 
san found  herself  in  the  big  living-room  with  Keith 
and  the  doctor  and  Daniel  Burton,  all  shaking 
hands  and  all  talking  at  once.  They  sat  down  then, 
and  their  sentences  became  less  broken,  less  in- 


WITH  CHIN  UP  191 

coherent.  But  they  said  only  ordinary  things  about 
the  day,  the  weather,  the  journey  home,  John 
McGuire,  the  war,  the  President's  message,  the  en- 
try of  the  United  States  into  the  conflict.  There 
was  nothing  whatever  said  about  eyes  that  could 
see,  or  eyes  that  could  not  see,  or  operations  that 
failed. 

And  by  and  by  the  doctor  got  up  and  said  that 
he  must  go.  To  be  sure,  the  good-byes  were  a  little 
hurriedly  spoken,  and  the  voices  were  at  a  little 
higher  pitch  than  was  usual;  and  when  the  doctor 
had  gone,  Keith  and  his  father  went  at  once  up- 
stairs to  the  studio  and  shut  the  door. 

Susan  went  out  into  the  kitchen  then  and  took 
up  her  neglected  work.  She  made  a  great  clatter  of 
pans  and  dishes,  and  she  sang  lustily  at  her  "mad 
song,"  and  at  several  others.  But  every  now  and 
then,  between  songs  and  rattles,  she  would  stop  and 
listen  intently;  and  twice  she  climbed  halfway  up 
the  back  stairs  and  stood  poised,  her  breath  sus- 
pended, her  anxious  eyes  on  that  closed  studio  door. 

Yet  supper  that  night  was  another  very  ordinary 
occurrence,  with  Keith  and  his  father  talking  of  the 
war  and  Susan  waiting  upon  them  with  a  cheerful- 
ness that  was  almost  obtrusive. 

In  her  own  room  that  night,  however,  Susan  ad- 
dressed an  imaginary  Keith,  all  in  the  dark. 

"You're  fine  an'  splendid,  an'  I  love  you  for  it, 
Keith,  my  boy,"  she  choked;  "but  you  don't  fool 
your  old  Susan.  Your  chin  is  up,  jest  as  I  said 
't  would  be,  an'  you  're  marchin'  straight  ahead. 


192  DAWN 

But  inside,  your  heart  is  breakin'.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  know  ?  But  we  ain't  goin'  to  let  each  other 
know  we  know,  Keith,  my  boy.  Not  much  we  ain't! 
An'  I  guess  if  you  can  march  straight  ahead  with 
your  chin  up,  the  rest  of  us  can,  all  right.  We'll 
see! 

And  Susan  was  singing  again  the  next  morning 
when  she  did  her  breakfast  dishes. 

At  ten  o'clock  Keith  came  into  the  kitchen. 

"Where's  dad,  Susan?  He  isn't  in  the  studio, 
and  I've  looked  in  every  room  in  the  house  and  I 
can't  find  him  anywhere."  Keith  spoke  with  the 
aggrieved  air  of  one  who  has  been  deprived  of  his 
just  rights. 

Susan's  countenance  changed. 

"Why,  Keith,  don't  you  —  that  is,  your  fa- 
ther —  Did  n't  he  tell  you?"  stammered  Susan. 

"Tell  me  what?" 

"Why,  that  —  that  he  was  goin'  to  be  away." 

"No,  he  did  n't.  What  do  you  mean?  Away 
where?  How  long?" 

"Why,  er  —  working." 

"Sketching?  7—  in  this  storm?  Nonsense,  Susan! 
Besides,  he'd  have  taken  me.  He  always  took  me. 
Susan,  what's  the  matter?  Where  is  dad?"  A  note 
of  uncertainty,  almost  fear,  had  crept  into  the  boy's 
voice.    "You're  keeping  —  something  from  me." 

Susan  caught  her  breath  and  threw  a  swift  look 
into  Keith's  unseeing  eyes.  Then  she  laughed, 
hysterically,  a  bit  noisily. 

"Keepin'  somethin'  from  you?    Why,  sure  we 


WITH  CHIN  UP  193 

ain't,  boy!  Didn't  I  jest  tell  you?  He's  workin' 
down  to  McGuire's." 

"Working!  Down  to  McGuire's!"  Keith  plainly 
did  not  yet  understand. 

"Sure!  An'  he's  got  a  real  good  position,  too." 
Susan  spoke  jauntily,  enthusiastically. 

"But  the  McGuires  never  buy  pictures,"  frowned 
Keith,  "or  want — "  He  stopped  short.  Face, 
voice,  and  manner  underwent  a  complete  change. 
"  Susan,  you  don't  mean  that  dad  is  clerking  down 
there  behind  that  grocery  counter!" 

Susan  saw  and  recognized  the  utter  horror  and 
dismay  in  Keith's  lace,  and  quailed  before  it.  But 
she  managed  in  some  way  to  keep  her  voice  still 
triumphant. 

"Sure  he  is!  An*  he  gets  real  good  wages,  too, 
an'  — "  But  Keith  with  a  low  cry  had  gone. 

Before  the  noon  dinner,  however,  he  appeared 
again  at  the  kitchen  door.  His  face  was  very  white 
now. 

"Susan,  how  long  has  dad  been  doing  this?" 

"Oh,  quite  a  while.  Funny,  now!  Hain't  he  ever 
told  you?" 

"No.  But  there  seem  to  be  quite  a  number  of 
things  that  you  people  have  n't  told  me." 

Susan  winced,  but  she  still  held  her  ground 
jauntily. 

"Oh,  yes,  quite  a  while,"  she  nodded  cheerfully. 
"An'  he  gets—  " 

"But  doesn't  he  paint  any  more  —  at  all?" 
interrupted  the  boy  sharply. 


194  DAWN 

"Why,  no;  no,  I  don't  know  that  he  does," 
tossed  Susan  airily.  "An'  of  course,  if  he's  found 
somethin'  he  likes  better  — " 

"Susan,  you  don't  have  to  talk  like  that  to  me," 
interposed  Keith  quietly.  "I  understand,  of  course. 
There  are  some  things  that  can  be  seen  without 

—  eyes." 

"Oh,  but  honest,  Keith,  he  — "  But  once  again 
Keith  had  gone  and  Susan  found  herself  talking  to 
empty  air. 

When  Susan  went  into  the  dining-room  that 
evening  to  wait  at  dinner,  she  went  with  fear  and 
trepidation,  and  she  looked  apprehensively  into 
the  faces  of  the  two  men  sitting  opposite  each 
other.  But  in  the  kitchen,  a  few  minutes  later, 
she  muttered  to  herself: 

"Pooh!  I  needn't  have  worried.  They've  got 
sense,  both  of  'em,  an'  they  know  that  what's  got 
to  be  has  got  to  be.  That's  all.  An'  that  it  don't 
do  no  good  to  fuss.   I  need  n't  have  worried." 

But  Susan  did  worry.  She  did  not  like  the  look 
on  Keith's  face.  She  did  not  like  the  nervous  twitch- 
ing of  his  hands.  She  did  not  like  the  exaggerated 
cheerfulness  of  his  manner. 

And  Keith  was  cheerful.  He  played  solitaire  with 
his  marked  cards  and  whistled.  He  worked  at  his 
raised-picture  puzzles  and  sang  snatches  of  merry 
song.  He  talked  with  anybody  who  came  near  him 

—  talked  very  fast  and  laughed  a  great  deal.  But 
behind  the  whistling  and  the  singing  and  the  laugh- 
ter Susan  detected  a  tense  strain  and  nervousness 


WITH  CHIN  UP  195 

that  she  did  not  like.  And  at  times,  when  she  knew 
Keith  thought  himself  alone,  there  was  an  expres- 
sion on  his  face  that  disturbed  Susan  not  a  little. 
But  because,  outwardly,  it  was  all  "cheerful- 
ness," Susan  kept  her  peace;  but  she  also  kept  her 
eyes  on  Keith. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  LION 

KEITH  had  not  been  home  a  week  before  it  was 
seen  that  Hinsdale  was  inclined  to  make  a 
Hon  of  the  boy. 

Women  brought  him  jelly  and  fruit,  and  men 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "How  are 
you,  my  boy?  "  in  voices  that  were  not  quite  steady. 
Young  girls  brought  him  flowers,  and  asked  Susan 
if  they  could  not  read  or  sing  or  do  something  to 
amuse  him.  Children  stood  about  the  gate  and 
stared,  talking  in  awe-struck  whispers,  happy  if  they 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face  at  the  window. 

A  part  of  this  Susan  succeeded  in  keeping  from 
Keith  —  Susan  had  a  well-founded  belief  that 
Keith  would  not  care  to  be  a  Hon.  But  a  great  deal 
of  it  came  to  his  knowledge,  of  course,  in  spite  of 
anything  she  could  do.  However,  she  told  herself 
that  she  need  not  have  worried,  for  if  Keith  had 
recognized  it  for  what  it  was,  he  made  no  sign; 
and  even  Susan  herself  could  find  no  fault  with  his 
behavior.  He  was  cordial,  cheery,  almost  gay,  out- 
wardly.  But  inwardly  — 

Susan  was  still  keeping  her  eyes  on  Keith. 

Mrs.  McGuire  came  often  to  see  Keith.  She  said 
she  knew  he  would  want  to  hear  John's  letters. 
And  there  were  all  the  old  ones,  besides  the  new 
ones  that  came  from  time  to  time.  She  brought 
them  aU,  and  read  them  to  him.    She  talked  about 


THE  LION  197 

the  young  soldier,  too,  a  great  deal,  to  the  blind 
boy.  She  explained  to  Susan  that  she  wanted  to  do 
everything  she  could  to  get  him  out  of  himself  and 
interest  him  in  the  world  outside;  and  that  she 
did  n't  know  any  better  way  to  do  it  than  to  tell 
him  of  these  brave  soldiers  who  were  doing  some- 
thing so  really  worth  while  in  the  world. 

"An'  he's  so  interested  —  the  dear  boy!"  she 
concluded,  with  a  sigh.  "An'  so  brave!  I  think  he's 
the  bravest  thing  I  ever  saw,  Susan  Betts." 

"Yes,  he  is  —  brave,"  said  Susan,  a  little  shortly 
—  so  shortly  that  Mrs.  McGuire  opened  her  eyes 
a  bit,  and  wondered  why  Susan's  lips  had  snapped 
tight  shut  in  that  straight,  hard  line. 

"But  what  ails  the  woman?"  she  muttered  to 
herself,  vexedly,  as  she  crossed  the  back  yard  to  her 
own  door.  "  Was  n't  she  herself  always  braggin' 
about  his  bein'  so  brave?  Humph!  There 's  no  such 
thing  as  pleasin'  some  folks,  it  seems ! "  finished  Mrs. 
McGuire  as  she  entered  her  own  door. 

But  Mrs.  McGuire  was  not  the  only  frequent 
caller.   There  was  Mazie  Sanborn. 

Mazie  began  by  coming  every  two  or  three  days 
with  flowers  and  fudge.  Then  she  brought  the 
latest  novel  one  day  and  suggested  that  she  read  it 
to  Keith. 

Susan  was  skeptical  of  this,  even  fearful.  She 
had  not  forgotten  Keith's  frenzied  avoidance  of 
such  callers  in  the  old  days.  But  to  her  surprise 
now  Keith  welcomed  Mazie  joyously  —  so  joyously 
that  Susan  began  to  suspect  that  behind  the  joy- 


198  DAWN 

ousness  lay  an  eagerness  to  welcome  anything  that 
would  help  him  to  forget  himself. 

She  was  the  more  suspicious  of  this  during  the 
days  that  followed,  as  she  saw  this  same  nervous 
eagerness  displayed  every  time  any  one  called  at 
the  house.  Susan's  joy  then  at  Keith's  gracious  re- 
sponse to  visitors'  attentions  changed  to  a  vague 
uneasiness.  Behind  and  beyond  it  all  lay  an  in- 
tangible something  upon  which  Susan  could  not 
place  her  finger,  but  which  filled  her  heart  with 
distrust.   And  so  still  she  kept  her  eyes  on  Keith. 

In  June  Dorothy  Parkman  came  to  Hinsdale. 
She  came  at  once  to  see  Susan.  But  she  would  only 
step  inside  the  hall,  and  she  spoke  low  and  hur- 
riedly, looking  fearfully  toward  the  closed  doors 
beyond  the  stairway. 

"I  had  to  come  —  to  see  how  he  was,"  she  began, 
a  little  breathlessly.  "And  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if 
you  thought  I  could  do  any  good  or  —  or  be  any 
help  to  him,  either  as  Miss  Stewart  or  Dorothy 
Parkman.  Only  I  —  I  suppose  I  would  have  to  be 
Dorothy  Parkman  now.  I  could  n't  keep  the  other 
up  forever,  of  course.  But  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  — "  She  stopped,  and  looked  again  fearfully 
toward  the  closed  doors.  "Susan,  how  —  how  is 
he?"  she  finished  unsteadily. 

"He's  well  —  very  well." 

"He  sees  people  —  Mazie  says  he  sees  everybody 
now." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,  he  sees  people." 

"That's  why  I  thought  perhaps  he  wouldn't 


THE  LION  199 

mind  me  now  —  I  mean  the  real  me,"  faltered  the 
girl  wistfully. 

"  Maybe. "  Susan's  sigh  and  frown  expressed  doubt. 

"But  he's  real  brave,"  challenged  the  girl 
quickly.    "Mazie  said  he  was." 

"I  know.  Everybody  says  —  he's  brave."  There 
was  an  odd  constraint  in  Susan's  voice,  but  the  girl 
was  too  intent  on  her  own  problem  to  notice  it. 

"And  that's  why  I  hoped  —  about  me,  you 
know  —  that  he  would  n't  mind  —  now.  And,  of 
course,  it  can't  make  any  difference  —  about  his 
eyes,  for  he  does  n't  need  father,  or  —  or  any  one 
now."  Her  voice  broke.  "Oh,  Susan,  I  want  to 
help,  some  way,  if  I  can!  Would  he  see  me,  do  you 
think?" 

"He  ought  to.   He  sees  everybody  else." 

"I  know.   Mazie  says  — " 

"Does  Mazie  know  about  you?"  interrupted 
Susan.  "I  mean,  about  your  being  *  Miss  Stewart '?  " 

"A  little,  but  not  much.  I  told  her  once  that  he 
'most  always  called  me  'Miss  Stewart,'  but  I  never 
made  anything  of  it,  and  I  never  told  her  how  much 
I  saw  of  him  out  home.  Some  way,  I — "  She 
stopped  short,  with  a  quick  indrawing  of  her  breath. 
In  the  doorway  down  the  hall  stood  Keith. 

"Susan,  I  thought  I  heard  —  Was  Miss  Stewart 
here?"  he  demanded  excitedly. 

With  only  the  briefest  of  hesitations  and  a  half- 
despairing,  half-relieved  look  into  Susan's  startled 
eyes,  the  young  girl  hurried  forward. 

"Indeed  I'm  here,"  she  cried  gayly,  giving  a 


200  DAWN 

warm  clasp  to  his  eagerly  outstretched  hand. 
"How  do  you  do?   Susan  was  just  saying  — " 

But  Susan  was  gone  with  upflung  hands  and  a 
look  that  said  "No,  you  don't  rake  me  into  this 
thing,  young  lady!"  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken 
the  words  themselves. 

In  the  living-room  a  minute  later,  Keith  began 
eager  questioning. 

"When  did  you  come?" 

"Yesterday." 

"And  you  came  to  see  me  the  very  next  day! 
Were  n't  you  good?  You  knew  how  I  wanted  to  see 
you." 

"Oh,  but  I  did  n't,"  she  laughed  a  little  embar- 
rassedly.  "You're  at  home  now,  and  you  have  all 
your  old  friends,  and  — " 

"But  they're  not  you.  There's  not  any  one  like 
you,"  cut  in  the  youth  fervently.  "And  now  you're 
going  to  stay  a  long  time,  are  n't  you?" 

"Y-yes,  several  weeks,  probably." 

"Good!  And  you'll  come  every  day  to  see  me?" 

"W-well,  as  to  that—" 

"It's  too  much  to  ask,  of  course,"  broke  off 
Keith  contritely.  "And,  truly,  I  don't  want  to  im- 
pose on  you." 

"No,  no,  it  is  n't  that,"  protested  the  girl  quickly. 
"It's  only  —  There  are  so  many  — " 

"But  I  told  you  there  is  n't  anybody  like  you, 
Miss  Stewart.  There  is  n't  any  one  here  that  under- 
stands —  like  you.  And  it  was  you  who  first  taught 
me  to  do  —  so  many  things."    His  voice  faltered. 


THE  LION  201 

He  paused,  wet  his  lips,  then  plunged  on  hurriedly. 
"Miss  Stewart,  I  don't  say  this  sort  of  thing  very 
often.  I  never  said  it  before  —  to  anybody.  But 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I  understood  and  appre- 
ciated just  what  you  were  doing  all  those  weeks 
for  me  out  there  at  the  sanatorium.  And  it  was  the 
way  you  did  it,  with  never  a  word  or  a  hint  that  I 
was  different.  You  did  things,  and  you  made  me 
do  things,  without  reminding  me  all  the  time  that  I 
was  blind.  I  shall  never  forget  that  first  day  when 
you  told  me  dad  would  want  to  hear  from  me;  and 
then,  before  I  could  say  a  word,  you  put  that  paper 
in  my  hands,  and  my  fingers  fell  on  those  lines  that 
I  could  feel.  And  how  I  blessed  you  for  not  telling 
me  those  lines  were  there!  Don't  you  see?  Every- 
body here,  that  comes  to  see  me,  tells  me  —  the  lines 
are  there." 

"Yes,  I  —  know."  The  girl's  voice  was  low,  a 
little  breathless. 

"And  that's  why  I  need  you  so  much.  If  any- 
body in  the  whole  world  can  make  me  forget  for  a 
minute,  you  can.  You  will  come?" 

"Why,  of  course,  I'll  come,  and  be  glad  to.  You 
know  I  will.  And  I  'm  so  glad  if  I  've  helped  —  any ! " 

"You've  helped  more  —  than  you'll  ever  know. 
But,  come  —  look !  I  've  got  a  dandy  new  game 
here."  And  Keith,  very  obviously  to  hide  the  shake 
in  his  voice  and  the  emotion  in  his  face,  turned 
gayly  to  a  little  stand  near  him  and  picked  up  a 
square  cardboard  box. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Dorothy  Parkman,  passing 


202  DAWN 

through  the  hall  on  her  way  to  the  outer  door,  was 
waylaid  by  Susan. 

"Sh-h!  Don't  speak  here,  but  come  with  me," 
she  whispered,  leading  the  way  through  the  dining- 
room.  In  the  kitchen  she  stopped  and  turned 
eagerly.  "Well,  did  you  tell  him?"  she  demanded. 

Miss  Dorothy  shook  her  head,  mutely,  despair- 
ingly. 

"You  mean  he  don't  know  yet  that  you're 
Dorothy  Parkman?" 

"I  mean  just  that." 

"But,  child  alive,  he'll  find  out  —  he  can't  help 
finding  out  —  now." 

"I  know  it.  But  I  just  couldn't  tell  him — -I 
could  n't,  Susan.  I  tried  to  do  it  two  or  three  times. 
Indeed,  I  did.  But  the  words  just  would  n't  come. 
And  now  I  don't  know  when  I  can  tell  him." 

"But  he  was  tickled  to  death  to  see  you.  He 
showed  it,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"I  know."  A  soft  pink  suffused  the  young  girl's 
face.  "But  it  was  'Miss  Stewart'  he  was  glad  to 
see,  not  Dorothy  Parkman.  And,  after  the  things 
he  said  — "  She  stopped  and  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder  toward  the  room  she  had  just  left. 

"But,  Miss  Dorothy,  don't  you  see?  It'll  be  all 
right,  now.  You've  shown  him  that  you  don't  mind 
being  with  blind  folks  a  mite.  So  now  he  won't  care 
a  bit  when  he  knows  you  are  Dorothy  Parkman." 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head  again. 

"Yes,  I  know.  He  might  not  mind  that  part, 
perhaps;  but  I  know  he'd  mind  the  deceit  all  these 


THE  LION  203 

long  months,  and  it  would  n't  be  easy  to  —  to 
make  him  understand.  He  'd  never  forgive  it  —  I 
know  he  would  n't  —  to  think  I  'd  taken  advan- 
tage of  his  not  being  able  to  see." 

"Nonsense!  Of  course  he  would." 

"He  wouldn't.  You  don't  know.  Just  to-day- 
he  said  something  about  —  about  some  one  who 
had  tried  to  deceive  him  in  a  little  thing,  because 
he  was  blind;  and  I  could  see  how  bitter  he  was." 

"But  what  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  Susan.  It's  harder  than  ever 
now,"  almost  moaned  the  girl. 

"You're  comin'  again?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.  I  shall  come  as  long  as  he'll  let 
me.  I  know  he  wants  me  to.  I  know  I  have  helped 
a  little.  He  spoke  —  beautifully  about  that  to- 
day. But,  whether,  after  he  finds  out  — -"  Her 
voice  choked  into  silence  and  she  turned  her  head 
quite  away. 

"There,  there,  dear,  don't  you  fret,"  Susan  com- 
forted her.  "You  jest  go  home  and  think  no  more 
about  it. 

When  thinkin'  won't  mend  it, 
Then  thinkin'  won't  end  it. 

So  what's  the  use?  When  you  get  ready,  you  jest 
come  again;  an'  you  keep  a-comin',  too.  It'll  all 
work  out  right.  You  see  if  it  don't." 

"Thank  you,  Susan.  Oh,  I'll  come  as  long  as  I 
can,"  sighed  the  girl,  turning  to  go.  "But  I'm  jiot 
so  sure  how  it'll  turn  out,"  she  finished  with  a  wist- 
ful smile  over  her  shoulder  as  she  opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE? 

AS  Miss  Dorothy  herself  had  said,  it  could  not, 
of  course,  continue.  She  came  once,  and  once 
again  to  see  Keith;  and  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to 
make  her  position  clear  to  him,  her  secret  still  re- 
mained her  own.  Then,  on  the  third  visit,  the 
dreaded  disclosure  came,  naturally,  and  in  the 
simplest,  most  unexpected  way;  yet  in  a  way  that 
would  most  certainly  have  been  the  last  choice  of 
Miss  Dorothy  herself  could  she  have  had  aught  to 
say  about  it. 

The  two,  Keith  and  Dorothy,  had  had  a  wonder- 
ful hour  over  a  book  that  Dorothy  had  brought  to 
read.  They  had  been  sitting  on  the  porch,  and 
Dorothy  had  risen  to  go  when  there  came  a  light 
tread  on  the  front  walk  and  Mazie  Sanborn  tripped 
up  the  porch  steps. 

"Well,  Dorothy  Parkman,  is  this  where  you 
were?"  she  cried  gayly.  "I  was  hunting  all  over 
the  house  for  you  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Dorothy  Parkman ! "  Keith  was  on  his  feet.  His 
face  had  grown  very  white. 

Dorothy,  too,  her  eyes  on  Keith's  face,  had  grown 
very  white;  yet  she  managed  to  give  a  light  laugh, 
and  her  voice  matched  Mazie's  own  for  gayety. 

"Were  you?  Well,  I  was  right  here.  But  I'm 
going  now." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE?         205 

"You!  but  — Miss  Stewart!"  Keith's  colorless 
lips  spoke  the  words  just  above  his  breath. 

"Why,  Keith  Burton,  what's  the  matter?" 
laughed  Mazie.  "You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a 
ghost.  I  mean  —  oh,  forgive  that  word,  Keith," 
she  broke  off  in  light  apology.  "I'm  always  for- 
getting, and  talking  as  if  you  could  really  see.  But 
you  looked  so  funny,  and  you  brought  out  that 
'Dorothy  Parkman'  with  such  a  surprised  air. 
Just  as  if  you  did  n't  ever  call  her  that  in  the  old 
school  days,  Keith  Burton!  Oh,  Dorothy  told  me 
you  called  her  'Miss  Stewart'  a  lot  now;  but  — " 

"Yes,  I  have  called  her  'Miss  Stewart'  quite 
a  lot  lately,"  interposed  Keith,  in  a  voice  so  qui- 
etly self-controlled  that  even  Dorothy  herself  was 
almost  deceived.  But  not  quite.  Dorothy  saw  the 
clenched  muscles  and  white  knuckles  of  his  hands 
as  he  gripped  the  chair-back  before  him;  and  she 
knew  too  much  to  expect  him  to  offer  his  hand  in 
good-bye.  So  she  backed  away,  and  she  still  spoke 
lightly,  inconsequently,  though  she  knew  her  voice 
was  shaking,  as  she  made  her  adieus. 

"Well,  good-bye,  I  must  be  going  now,  sure.  I'll 
be  over  to-morrow,  though,  to  finish  the  book. 
Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Keith. 

And  Dorothy  wondered  if  Mazie  noticed  that  he 
quite  omitted  a  polite  "Come  again,"  and  if  Mazie 
saw  that  as  he  said  the  terse  "Good-bye"  he  put 
both  hands  suddenly  and  resolutely  behind  his 
back. 


206  DAWN 

Dorothy  saw  it,  and  at  home,  long  hours  later 
she  was  still  crying  over  it. 

She  went  early  to  the  Burtons'  the  next  fore- 
noon. 

"I  came  to  finish  the  book  I  was  reading  to  Mr. 
Keith,"  she  told  Susan  brightly,  as  her  ring  was 
answered.  "I  thought  I'd  come  early  before  any- 
body else  got  here." 

She  would  have  stepped  in,  but  Susan's  ample 
figure  still  barred  the  way. 

"Well,  now,  that's  too  bad!"  Susan's  voice 
expressed  genuine  concern  and  personal  disappoint- 
ment. "Ain't  it  a  shame?  Keith  said  he  wa'n't 
feelin'  nohow  well  .this  mornin',  an'  that  he  did  n't 
want  to  see  no  one.  An'  under  no  circumstances 
not  to  let  no  one  in  to  see  him.  But  maybe  if  I 
told  him  't  was  you  — " 

"No,  no,  don't  —  don't  do  that!"  cried  the  girl 
hurriedly.    "I  —  I '11  come  again  some  other  time." 

On  the  street  a  minute  later  she  whispered 
tremulously:  "He  did  it  on  purpose,  of  course.  He 
knew  I  would  come  this  morning!  But  he  can't 
keep  it  up  forever !  He  '11  have  to  see  me  some  time. 
And  when  he  does  —  Oh,  if  only  Mazie  Sanborn 
hadn't  blurted  it  out  like  that!  Why  didn't  I 
tell  him?  Why  did  n't  I  tell  him?  But  I  will  tell 
him.    He  can't  keep  this  up  forever." 

When  on  a  second  and  a  third  and  a  fourth 
morning,  however,  Dorothy  had  found  Susan's 
figure  barring  the  way,  and  had  received  the  same 
distressed  "He  says  he  won't  see  no  one,  Miss 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE?  207 

Dorothy,"  from  Susan's  plainly  troubled  lips, 
Dorothy  began  to  think  Keith  did  mean  to  keep  it 
up  forever. 

"But  what  is  it,  Susan?"  she  faltered.  "Is  he 
sick,  really  sick?" 

"I  don't  know,  Miss  Dorothy,"  frowned  Susan. 
"But  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it,  anyhow.  He  says 
he  ain't  sick  —  not  physicianly  sick;  but  he  jest 
don't  want  to  talk  an'  see  folks.  An'  he 's  been  like 
that  'most  a  week  now.  An'  I'm  free  to  confess  I 
don't  like  it." 

"But  what  does  he  do  —  all  day?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"Nothin',  that  I  can  see,"  sighed  Susan  pro- 
foundly. "Oh,  he  plays  that  solitary  some,  an* 
putters  a  little  with  some  of  his  raised  books;  but 
mostly  he  jest  sits  still  an'  thinks.  An'  I  don't  like 
it.  If  only  his  father  was  here.  But  with  him  gone 
peddlin'  molasses,  an'  no  one  'lowed  into  the  house, 
there  ain't  anything  for  him  to  do  but  to  think. 
An'  't  ain't  right  nor  good  for  him.  I  've  watched 
him  an'  I  know." 

"But  he  used  to  see  people,  Susan." 

"I  know  it.   He  saw  everybody." 

"Do  you  know  why  he  won't  —  now?"  asked 
the  girl  a  little  faintly. 

"I  hain't  the  faintest  inception  of  an  idea.  It 
came  as  sudden  as  that,"  declared  Susan,  snapping 
her  finger. 

"Then  he  hasn't  said  anything  special  about 
not  wanting  to  see  —  me?" 


208  DAWN 

"Why,  no.  He  —  Do  you  mean  —  Has  he 
found  out?"  demanded  Susan,  interrupting  herself 
excitedly. 

"Yes.  He  found  out  last  Monday  afternoon. 
Mazie  ran  up  on  to  the  porch  and  called  me  by 
name  right  out.  Oh,  Susan,  it  was  awful.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  look  on  that  boy's  face  as  long  as 
I  live." 

"Lan'  sakes!  Monday!"  breathed  Susan.  "An* 
Tuesday  he  began  refusin'  to  see  folks.  Then  'course 
that  was  it.  But  why  won't  he  see  other  folks? 
They  hain't  anything  to  do  with  you." 

"I  don't  know  —  unless  he  did  n't  want  to  tell 
you  specially  not  to  let  me  in,  and  so  he  said  not  to 
let  anybody  in." 

"Was  he  awful  mad?" 

"It  wasn't  so  much  anger  as  it  was  grief  and 
hurt  and  —  oh,  I  can't  express  what  it  was.  But  I 
saw  it;  and  I  never  shall  forget  it.  You  see,  to  have 
it  blurted  out  to  him  like  that  without  any  warning 

—  and  of  course  he  could  n't  understand." 

"But  didn't  you  explain  things — how  'twas, 
in  the  first  place?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't  —  not  with 
Mazie  there.   I  said  I'd  come  the  next  morning  to 

—  to  finish  the  book.  I  thought  he  'd  understand  I 
was  going  to  explain  then.  He  probably  did  —  and 
that 's  why  he  won't  let  me  in.  He  does  n't  want 
any  explanations,"  sighed  the  girl  tremulously. 

"Well,  he  ought  to  want  'em,"  asserted  Susan 
with  vigor.    "'T  ain't  fair  nor  right  nor  sensible 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE?         209 

for  him  to  act  like  this,  makin'  a  mountain  out  of 
an  ant-hill.  I  declare,  Miss  Dorothy,  he  ought  to 
be  made  to  see  you." 

The  girl  flushed  and  drew  back. 

"Most  certainly  not,  Susan!  I  —  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  making  people  see  me,  when  they  don't 
wish  to.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  beg  and 
tease:  'Please  won't  you  let  me  see  you?'  Hardly! 
He  need  not  worry.  I  shall  not  come  again." 

"Oh,  Miss  Dorothy!"  remonstrated  Susan. 

"Why,  of  course  I  won't,  Susan!"  cried  the  girl. 
"Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  keep  him  from  see- 
ing other  people  just  because  he's  afraid  he '11  have 
to  let  me  in,  too?  Nonsense,  Susan!  Even  you 
must  admit  I  cannot  allow  that.  You  may  tell 
Mr.  Keith,  please,  that  he  may  feel  no  further 
uneasiness.    I  shall  not  trouble  him  again." 

"Oh,  Miss  Dorothy!"  begged  Susan  agitatedly, 
once  more. 

But  Miss  Dorothy,  with  all  the  hurt  dignity  of 
her  eighteen  years,  turned  haughtily  away,  leaving 
Susan  impotent  and  distressed,  looking  after  her. 

Two  minutes  later  Susan  sought  Keith  in  the 
living-room.  Her  whole  self  spelt  irate  determina- 
tion —  but  Keith  could  not  see  that.  Keith,  listless 
and  idle-handed,  sat  in  his  favorite  chair  by  the 
window. 

"Dorothy  Parkman  jest  rang  the  bell,"  began 
Susan,  "an'  — " 

"But  I  said  I'd  see  no  one,"  interrupted  Keith, 
instantly  alert. 


210  DAWN 

"That's  what  I  told  her,  an*  she's  gone." 

"Oh,  all  right."  Keith  relaxed  into  his  old  list- 
lessness. 

"An'  she  said  to  please  tell  you  she'd  trouble 
you  no  further,  so  you  might  let  in  the  others  now 
as  soon  as  you  please." 

Keith  sat  erect  in  his  chair  with  a  jerk. 

"What  did  she  mean  by  that?" 

"I  guess  you  don't  need  me  to  tell  you,"  ob- 
served Susan  grimly. 

With  a  shrug  and  an  irritable  gesture  Keith 
settled  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  don't  care  to  discuss  it,  Susan.  I  don't  wish 
to  see  any  one.  We'll  let  it  go  at  that,  if  you 
please,"  he  said. 

"But  I  don't  please!"  Susan  was  in  the  room 
now,  close  to  Keith's  chair.  Her  face  was  quivering 
with  emotion.  "Keith,  won't  you  listen  to  reason? 
It  ain't  like  you  a  mite  to  sit  back  like  this  an' 
refuse  to  see  a  nice  little  body  like  Dorothy  Park- 
man,  what's  been  so  kind  — " 

"Susan!"  Keith  was  sitting  erect  again.  His 
face  was  white,  and  carried  a  stern  anguish  that 
Susan  had  never  seen  before.  "I  don't  care  to 
discuss  Miss  Parkman  with  you  or  with  anybody 
else.  Neither  do  I  care  to  discuss  the  fact  that  I 
thoroughly  understand,  of  course,  that  you,  or 
she,  or  anybody  else,  can  fool  me  into  believing 
anything  you  please;  and  I  can't  —  help  myself." 

"No,  no,  Keith,  don't  take  it  like  that  —  please 
don't!" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE?         211 

"Is  there  any  other  way  I  can  take  it?  Do  you 
think  'Miss  Stewart'  could  have  made  such  a  fool 
of  me  if  I'd  had  eyes  to  see  Dorothy  Parkman?" 

"But  she  was  only  try  in'  to  help  you,  an'  — " 

"I  don't  want  to  be  'helped'!"  stormed  the  boy 
hotly.  "Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Susan,  that  1 
might  sometimes  like  to  help  somebody  myself, 
instead  of  this  everlastingly  having  somebody 
help  me?" 

"But  you  do  help.  You  help  me,"  asserted 
Susan  feverishly,  working  her  nervous  fingers 
together.  "An'  you'd  help  me  more  if  you'd  only 
let  folks  in  to  see  you,  an'  — " 

"All  right,  all  right,"  interrupted  Keith  testily. 
"Let  them  in.  Let  everybody  in.  I  don't  care. 
What's  the  difference?  But,  please,  please,  Susan, 
stop  talking  any  more  about  it  all  now." 

And  Susan  stopped.  There  were  times  when 
Susan  knew  enough  to  stop,  and  this  was  one  of 
them. 

But  she  took  him  at  his  word,  and  when  Mrs. 
McGuire  came  the  next  day  with  a  letter  from  her 
John,  Susan  ushered  her  into  the  living-room  where 
Keith  was  sitting  alone.  And  Keith  welcomed  her 
with  at  least  a  good  imitation  of  his  old  heartiness. 

Mrs.  McGuire  said  she  had  such  a  funny  letter 
to  read  to-day.  She  knew  he  'd  enjoy  it,  and  Susan 
would,  too,  particularly  the  part  that  John  had 
quoted  from  something  that  had  been  printed  by 
the  British  soldiers  in  France  and  circulated  among 
their  comrades  in  the  trenches  and  hospitals,  and 


212  DAWN 

everywhere.   John  had  written  it  off  on  a  separate 
piece  of  paper,  and  this  was  it: 

Don't  worry:  there's  nothing  to  worry  about. 

You  have  two  alternatives:  either  you  are  mobilized  or  you 
are  not.  If  not,  you  have  nothing  to  worry  about. 

If  you  are  mobilized,  you  have  two  alternatives :  you  are  in 
camp  or  at  the  front.  If  you  are  in  camp,  you  have  nothing 
to  worry  about. 

If  you  are  at  the  front,  you  have  two  alternatives:  either 
you  are  on  the  fighting  line  or  in  reserve.  If  in  reserve,  you 
have  nothing  to  worry  about. 

If  you  are  on  the  fighting  line,  you  have  two  alternatives: 
either  you  fight  or  you  don't.  If  you  don't,  you  have  nothing 
to  worry  about. 

If  you  do,  you  have  two  alternatives :  either  you  get  hurt 
or  you  don't.  If  you  don't,  you  have  nothing  to  worry  about. 

If  you  are  hurt,  you  have  two  alternatives:  either  you  are 
slightly  hurt  or  badly.  If  slightly,  you  have  nothing  to  worry 
about. 

If  badly,  you  have  two  alternatives :  either  you  recover  or 
you  don't.  If  you  recover,  you  have  nothing  to  worry  about. 
If  you  don't,  and  have  followed  my  advice  clear  through, 
you  have  done  with  worry  forever. 

Mrs.  McGuire  was  in  a  gale  of  laughter  by  the 
time  she  had  finished  reading  this;  so,  too,  was 
Susan.  Keith  also  was  laughing,  but  his  laughter 
did  not  have  the  really  genuine  ring  to  it  —  which 
fact  did  not  escape  Susan. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he  let  Mis'  McGuire  in  —  an* 
that's  somethin',"  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  Mrs. 
McGuire  took  her  departure.  "Besides,  he  talked 
to  her  real  pleasant  —  an'  that's  more." 

As  the  days  passed,  others  came,  also,  and  Keith 
talked  with  them.  He  even  allowed  Dorothy  Park- 
man  to  be  admitted  one  day. 


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HOW  COULD  YOU,  MAZIE?         213 

Dorothy  had  not  come  until  after  long  urging 
on  the  part  of  Susan  and  the  assurance  that  Keith 
had  said  he  would  see  her.  Even  then  nothing 
would  have  persuaded  her,  she  told  Susan,  except 
the  great  hope  that  she  could  say  something,  in 
some  way,  that  would  set  her  right  in  Keith's  eyes. 

So  with  fear  and  trembling  and  with  a  painful 
embarrassment  on  her  face,  but  with  a  great  hope 
in  her  heart,  she  entered  the  room  and  came 
straight  to  Keith's  side. 

For  a  moment  the  exultation  of  a  fancied  success 
sent  a  warm  glow  all  through  her,  for  Keith  had 
greeted  her  pleasantly  and  even  extended  his  hand. 
But  almost  at  once  the  glow  faded  and  the  great 
hope  died  in  her  heart,  for  she  saw  that  even  while 
she  touched  his  hand,  he  was  yet  miles  away  from 
her. 

He  laughed  and  talked  with  her  —  oh,  yes;  but 
he  laughed  too  much  and  talked  too  much.  He 
gave  her  almost  no  chance  to  say  anything  herself. 
And  what  he  said  was  so  inconsequential  and  so 
far  removed  from  anything  intimately  concerning 
themselves,  that  the  girl  found  it  utterly  impossible 
to  make  the  impassioned  explanation  which  she 
had  been  saying  over  and  over  again  all  night  to 
herself,  and  from  which  she  had  hoped  so  much. 

Yet  at  the  last,  just  before  she  bade  him  good- 
bye, she  did  manage  to  say  something.  But  in  her 
disappointment  and  excitement  and  embarrass- 
ment, her  words  were  blurted  out  haltingly  and 
ineffectually,  and  they  were  not  at  all  the  ones  she 


214  DAWN 

had  practiced  over  and  over  to  herself  in  the  long 
night  watches;  nor  were  they  received  as  she  had 
palpitatingly  pictured  that  they  would  be,  with 
Keith  first  stern  and  hurt,  and  then  just  dear  and 
forgiving  and  understanding. 

Keith  was  neither  stern  nor  hurt.  He  still 
laughed  pleasantly,  and  he  tossed  her  whole  la- 
bored explanation  aside  with  a  light:  "Certainly  — 
of  course  —  to  be  sure  —  not  at  all !  You  did  quite 
right,  I  assure  you!"  And  then  he  remarked  that  it 
was  a  warm  day,  was  n't  it?  And  Dorothy  found 
herself  hurrying  down  the  Burton  front  walk  with 
burning  cheeks  and  a  chagrined  helplessness  that 
left  her  furious  and  with  an  ineffably  cheap  feeling 
—  yet  not  able  to  put  her  finger  on  any  discour- 
teous flaw  in  Keith's  punctilious  politeness. 

"I  wish  I'd  never  said  a  word  —  not  a  word," 
she  muttered  hotly  to  herself  as  she  hurried  down 
the  street.  "I  wonder  if  he  thinks  —  I'll  ever 
open  my  head  to  him  about  it  again.  Well,  he 
need  n't  —  worry !  But  —  oh,  Keith,  Keith,  how 
could  you?"  she  choked  brokenly.  Then  abruptly 
she  turned  down  a  side  street,  lest  Mazie  Sanborn, 
coming  toward  her,  should  see  the  big  tears  that 
were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
JOHN  McGUIRE 

SO  imperative  was  the  knock  at  the  kitchen 
door  at  six  o'clock  that  July  morning  that 
Susan  almost  fell  down  the  back  stairs  in  her  haste 
to  obey  the  summons. 

"Lan'  sakes,  Mis'  McGuire,  what  a  start  you  did 
give  —  why,  Mis'  McGuire,  what  is  it?"  she  inter- 
rupted herself,  aghast,  as  Mrs.  McGuire,  white- 
faced  and  wild -eyed,  swept  past  her  and  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  kitchen  floor,  moaning 
f  renziedly : 

"  It 's  come  —  it 's  come  —  I  knew 't  would  come. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

"What's  come?" 

"Oh,  John,  John,  my  boy,  my  boy!" 

"You  don't  mean  he's  —  dead?" 

"No,  no,  worse  than  that,  worse  than  that!" 
moaned  the  woman,  wringing  her  hands.  "Oh, 
what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do?" 

With  a  firm  grasp  Susan  caught  the  twisting 
fingers  and  gently  but  resolutely  forced  their  owner 
into  a  chair. 

"Do?  You  '11  jest  calm  yourself  right  down  an' 
tell  me  all  about  it,  Mis'  McGuire.  This  ram- 
pagin'  'round  the  kitchen  like  this  don't  do  no  sort 
of  good,  an'  it's  awful  on  your  nerves.  An'  further- 
more an'  moreover,  no  matter  what  't  is  that  ails 


216  DAWN 

your  John,  it  can't  be  worse 'n  death;  for  while 
there's  life  there's  hope,  you  know." 

"But  it  is,  it  is,  I  tell  you,"  sobbed  Mrs.  McGuire 
still  swaying  her  body  back  and  forth.  "  Susan,  my 
boy  is  —  blind/'  With  the  utterance  of  the  dread 
word  Mrs.  McGuire  stiffened  suddenly  into  rigid 
horror,  her  eyes  staring  straight  into  Susan's. 

"Mis'  McGuire!"  breathed  Susan  in  dismay; 
then  hopefully,  "But  maybe  't  was  a  mistake." 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  She  went  back  to 
her  swaying  from  side  to  side. 

"No,  't  was  a  dispatch.  It  came  this  mornin'. 
Just  now.  Mr.  McGuire  was  gone,  an'  there  was  n't 
anybody  there  but  the  children,  an'  they  're  asleep. 
That's  why  I  came  over.  I  had  to.  I  had  to  talk 
to  some  one!" 

"Of  course,  you  did!  An'  you  shall,  you  poor 
lamb.  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it.  What  was  it? 
What  happened  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  just  know  he's  blind,  an'  that 
he's  comin'  home.  He's  on  his  way  now.  My 
John  —  blind !  Oh,  Susan,  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

"Then  he  probably  ain't  sick,  or  hurt  anywheres 
else,  if  he 's  on  his  way  home  —  leastways,  he  ain't 
hurt  bad.  You  can  be  glad  for  that,  Mis'  McGuire." 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  Maybe  he  is.  It 
did  n't  say.  It  just  said  blinded,"  chattered  Mrs. 
McGuire  feverishly.  "They  get  them  home  just 
as  soon  as  they  can  when  they're  blinded.  We 
were  readin'  about  it  only  yesterday  in  the  paper 


JOHN  McGUIRE  217 

—  how  they  did  send  'em  home  right  away.  Oh, 
how  little  I  thought  that  my  son  John  would  be 
one  of  'em  —  my  John!" 

"But  your  John  ain't  the  only  one,  Mis' 
McGuire.  There 's  other  Johns,  too.  Look  at  our 
Keith  here." 

"I  know,  I  know." 

"An'  I  wonder  how  he'll  take  this  —  about  your 
John?" 

"He'll  know  what  it  means,"  choked  Mrs. 
McGuire. 

"He  sure  will  —  an'  he'll  feel  bad.  I  know  that. 
He  ain't  hisself,  anyway,  these  days." 

"He  ain't?"  Mrs.  McGuire  asked  the  question 
abstractedly,  her  mind  plainly  on  her  own  trouble; 
but  Susan,  intent  on  her  trouble,  did  not  need  even 
the  question  to  spur  her  tongue. 

"No,  he  ain't.  Oh,  he's  brave  an'  cheerful. 
He's  awful  cheerful,  even  cheerfuler  than  he  was 
a  month  ago.  He's  too  cheerful,  Mis'  McGuire. 
There's  somethin'  back  of  it  I  don't  like.   He  — " 

But  Mrs.  McGuire  was  not  listening.  Wringing 
her  hands  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and  was 
pacing  the  floor  again,  moaning:  "Oh,  what  shall 
I  do,  what  shall  I  do?"  A  minute  later,  only 
weeping  afresh  at  Susan's  every  effort  to  comfort 
her,  she  stumbled  out  of  the  kitchen  and  hurried 
across  the  yard  to  her  own  door. 

Watching  her  from  the  window,  Susan  drew  a 
long  sigh. 

"  I  wonder  how  he  will  take  —    But,  Ian'  sakes, 


218  DAWN 

this  ain't  gettin'  my  breakfast,"  she  ejaculated, 
with  a  hurried  glance  at  the  clock  on  the  little  shelf 
over  the  stove. 

There  was  nothing,  apparently,  to  distinguish 
breakfast  that  morning  from  a  dozen  other  break- 
fasts that  had  gone  before.  Keith  and  his  father 
talked  cheerfully  of  various  matters,  and  Susan 
waited  upon  them  with  her  usual  briskness.  If 
Susan  was  more  silent  than  usual,  and  if  her  eyes 
sought  Keith's  face  more  frequently  than  was  her 
habit,  no  one,  apparently,  noticed  it.  Susan  did 
fancy,  however,  that  she  saw  a  new  tenseness  in 
Keith's  face,  a  new  nervousness  in  his  manner;  but 
that,  perhaps,  was  because  she  was  watching  him  so 
closely,  and  because  he  was  so  constantly  in  her 
mind,  owing  to  her  apprehension  as  to  how  he 
would  take  the  news  of  John  McGuire's  blindness. 

From  the  very  first  Susan  had  determined  not 
to  tell  her  news  until  after  Mr.  Burton  had  left  the 
house.  She  could  not  have  explained  it  even  to  her- 
self, but  she  had  a  feeling  that  it  would  be  better 
to  tell  Keith  when  he  was  alone.  She  planned, 
also,  to  tell  him  casually,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst 
of  other  conversation  —  not  as  if  it  were  the  one 
thing  on  her  mind.  In  accordance  with  this,  there- 
fore, she  forced  herself  to  finish  her  dishes  and  to 
set  her  kitchen  in  order  before  she  sought  Keith 
in  the  living-room. 

But  Keith  was  not  in  the  living-room;  neither 
was  he  on  the  porch  or  anywhere  in  the  yard. 

With  a  troubled  frown  on  her  face  Susan  climbed 


JOHN  McGUIRE  219 

the  stairs  to  the  second  floor.  Keith's  room  was 
silent,  and  empty,  so  far  as  human  presence  was 
concerned.  So,  too,  was  the  studio,  and  every  other 
room  on  that  floor. 

At  the  front  of  the  attic  stairs  Susan  hesitated. 
The  troubled  frown  on  her  face  deepened  as  she 
glanced  up  the  steep,  narrow  stairway. 

She  did  not  like  to  have  Keith  go  off  by  himself 
to  the  attic,  and  already  now  twice  before  she  had 
found  him  up  there,  poking  in  the  drawers  of  an 
old  desk  that  had  been  his  father's.  He  had  shut 
the  drawers  quickly  and  had  laughingly  turned 
aside  her  questions  when  she  had  asked  him  what 
in  the  world  he  was  doing  up  there.  And  he  had  got 
up  immediately  and  had  gone  downstairs  with  her. 
But  she  had  not  liked  the  look  on  his  face.  And 
to-day,  as  she  hesitated  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
she  was  remembering  that  look.  But  for  only  a 
moment.  Resolutely  then  she  lifted  her  chin,  ran 
up  the  stairs,  and  opened  the  attic  door. 

Over  at  the  desk  by  the  window  there  was  a 
swift  movement  —  but  not  so  swift  that  Susan 
did  not  see  the  revolver  pushed  under  some  loose 
papers. 

"Is  that  you,  Susan?  "  asked  Keith  sharply. 

"Yes,  honey.   I  jest  came  up  to  get  somethin'." 

Susan's  face  was  white  like  paper,  and  her  hands 
were  cold  and  shaking,  but  her  voice,  except  for  a 
certain  breathlessness,  was  cheerfully  steady.  With 
more  or  less  noise  and  with  a  running  fire  of  in- 
consequent comment,  she  rummaged  among  the 


220  DAWN 

trunks  and  boxes,  gradually  working  her  way  to- 
ward the  desk  where  Keith  still  sat. 

At  the  desk,  with  a  sudden  swift  movement,  she 
thrust  the  papers  to  one  side  and  dropped  her 
hand  on  the  revolver.  At  the  same  moment  Keith's 
arm  shot  out  and  his  hand  fell,  covering  hers. 

She  saw  his  young  face  flush  and  harden  and  his 
mouth  set  into  stern  lines. 

"Susan,  you'll  be  good  enough,  please,  to  take 
your  hand  off  that,"  he  said  then  sharply. 

There  was  a  moment's  tense  silence.  Susan's 
eyes,  agonized  and  pleading,  were  on  his  face.  But 
Keith  could  not  see  that.  He  could  only  hear  her 
words  a  moment  later  —  light  words,  with  a  hidden 
laugh  in  them,  yet  spoken  with  that  same  curious 
breathlessness. 

"Faith,  honey,  an'  how  can  I,  with  your  own 
hand  holdin'  mine  so  tight?" 

Keith  removed  his  hand  instantly.  His  set  face 
darkened. 

"This  is  not  a  joke,  Susan,  and  I  shall  have  to 
depend  on  your  honor  to  let  that  revolver  stay 
where  it  is.  Unfortunately  I  am  unable  to  see 
whether  I  am  obeyed  or  not." 

It  was  Susan's  turn  to  flush.  She  drew  back  at 
once,  leaving  the  weapon  uncovered  on  the  desk 
between  them. 

"I'm  not  takin'  the  pistol,  Keith."  The  laugh 
was  all  gone  from  Susan's  voice  now.  So,  too,  was 
the  breathlessness.  The  voice  was  steady,  grave, 
but  very  gentle.    "We  take  matches  an'  pizen  an' 


KEITH  S  ARM  SHOT  OUT  AND  HIS  HAND  FELL,  COVERING  HERS 


JOHN  McGUIRE  221 

knives  away  from  children  —  not  from  grown  men, 
Keith.  The  pistol  is  right  where  you  can  reach  it  — 
if  you  want  it." 

She  saw  the  fingers  of  Keith's  hand  twitch  and 
tighten.  Otherwise  there  was  no  answer.  After  a 
moment  she  went  on  speaking. 

"But  let  me  say  jest  this:  't  ain't  like  you  to  be 
a  — ■  quitter,  Keith."  She  saw  him  wince,  but  she 
did  not  wait  for  him  to  speak.  "An'  after  you've 
done  this  thing,  there  ain't  any  one  in  the  world  goin' 
to  be  so  sorry  as  you'll  be.  You  mark  my  words." 

It  was  like  a  sharp  knife  cutting  a  taut  cord. 
The  tense  muscles  relaxed  and  Keith  gave  a  sudden 
laugh.  True,  it  was  a  short  laugh,  and  a  bitter  one; 
but  it  was  a  laugh. 

"You  forget,  Susan.  If  —  if  I  carried  that  out 
I  would  n't  be  in  the  world  —  to  care." 

"Shucks!  You'd  be  in  some  world,  Keith 
Burton,  an'  you  know  it.  An'  you'd  feel  nice  lookin' 
down  on  the  mess  you'd  made  of  this  world,  would 
n't  you?" 

"Well,  if  I  was  looking,  I'd  be  seeing,  would  n't 
I?"  cut  in  the  youth  grimly.  "Don't  forget,  Su- 
san, that  I'd  be  seeing,  please." 

"Seein'  ain't  everything,  Keith  Burton.  Jest 
remember  that.  There  is  some  things  you  'd  rather 
be  blind  than  see.  An'  that's  one  of  'em.  Besides, 
seein'  ain't  the  only  sensible  you've  got,  an'  there's 
such  a  lot  of  things  you  can  do,  an'  — " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  Keith  fiercely, 
flinging  out  both  his  hands.   "I  can  feel  a  book,  and 


222  DAWN 

eat  my  dinner,  and  I  can  hear  the  shouts  of  the 
people  cheering  the  boys  that  go  marching  by  my 
door.  But  I'm  tired  of  it  all.  I  tell  you  I  can't 
stand  it  —  I  can't,  Susan.  Yes,  I  know  that 's  a 
cheap  way  out  of  it,"  he  went  on,  after  a  choking 
pause,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  re- 
volver on  the  desk;  "and  a  cowardly  one,  too.  I 
know  all  that.  And  maybe  I  would  n't  have  — 
have  done  it  to-day,  even  if  you  had  n't  come.  I 
found  it  last  week,  and  it  —  fascinated  me.  It 
seemed  such  an  easy  way  out  of  it.  Since  then  I  've 
been  up  here  two  or  three  times  just  to  —  to  feel 
of  it.  Somehow  I  liked  to  know  it  was  here,  and 
that,  if  —  if  I  just  could  n't  stand  things  another 
minute  — 

"But  —  I've  tried  to  be  decent,  honest  I  have. 
But  I'm  tired  of  being  amused  and  'tended  to  like 
a  ten-year-old  boy.  I  don't  want  flowers  and  jellies 
and  candies  brought  in  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  read 
and  play  solitaire  and  checkers  week  in  and  week 
out.  I  want  to  be  over  there,  doing  a  man's  work. 
Look  at  Ted,  and  Tom,  and  Jack  Green,  and  John 
McGuire!" 

"John  McGuire!"  It  was  a  faltering  cry  from 
Susan,  but  Keith  did  not  even  hear. 

"What  are  they  doing,  and  what  am  I  doing? 
Yet  you  people  expect  me  to  sit  here  contented  with 
a  dice-box  and  a  deck  of  playing-cards,  and  be 
glad  I  can  do  that  much.  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be.  But  when  I  sit  here  alone  day  after 
day  and  think  and  think  — '* 


JOHN  McGUIRE  223 

"But,  Keith,  we  don't  want  you  to  do  that," 
interposed  Susan  feverishly.  "Now  there's  Miss 
Dorothy  —  if  you'd  only  let  her  — " 

"But  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  be  babied  and 
pitied  and  'tended  to  by  young  women  who  are 
sorry  for  me.  /  want  to  do  the  helping  part  of  the 
time.  And  if  I  see  a  girl  I  —  I  could  care  for,  I 
want  to  be  able  to  ask  her  like  a  man  to  marry  me; 
and  then  if  she  says  'yes>'  I  want  to  be  able  to  take 
care  of  her  myself  —  not  have  her  take  care  of  me 
and  marry  me  out  of  pity  and  feed  me  fudge  and 
flowers!  And  there's  —  dad." 

Keith's  voice  broke  and  stopped.  Susan,  watch- 
ing his  impassioned  face,  wet  her  lips  and  swal- 
lowed convulsively.   Then  Keith  began  again. 

"Susan,  do  you  know  the  one  big  thing  that 
drives  me  up  here  every  time,  in  spite  of  myself? 
It 's  the  thought  of  —  dad.  How  do  you  suppose 
I  feel  to  think  of  dad  peddling  peas  and  beans 
and  potatoes  down  to  McGuire's  grocery  store?  — 
dad!" 

Susan  lifted  her  head  defiantly. 

"Well,  now  look  a-here,  Keith  Burton,  let  me 
tell  you  that  peddlin'  peas  an'  beans  an'  potatoes  is 
jest  as  honorary  as  paintin'  pictures,  an'  — " 

"I'm  not  saying  it  isn't,"  cut  in  the  boy  in- 
cisively. "I'm  merely  saying  that,  as  I  happen  to 
know,  he  prefers  to  paint  pictures  —  and  I  prefer 
to  have  him.  And  he'd  be  doing  it  this  minute  — 
if  it  was  n't  for  his  having  to  support  me,  and  you 
know  it,  Susan." 


224  DAWN 

"  Well,  what  of  it?   It  don't  hurt  him  any." 

"It  hurts  me,  Susan.  And  when  I  think  of  all 
the  things  he  hoped  —  of  me.  I  was  going  to  be 
Jerry  and  Ned  and  myself;  and  I  was  going  to  make 
him  so  proud,  Susan,  so  proud !  I  was  going  to  make 
up  to  him  all  that  he  had  lost.  All  day  under  the 
trees  up  on  the  hill,  I  used  to  lie  and  dream  of  what 
I  was  going  to  be  some  day  —  the  great  pictures 
I  was  going  to  paint  —  for  dad.  The  great  fame 
that  was  going  to  come  to  me  —  for  dad.  The 
money  I  was  going  to  earn  —  for  dad.  I  saw  dad, 
old  and  white-haired,  leaning  on  me.  I  saw  the  old 
house  restored  —  all  the  locks  and  keys  and  sag- 
ging blinds,  the  cracked  ceilings  and  tattered  wall- 
paper —  all  made  fresh  and  new.  And  dad  so 
proud  and  happy  in  it  all  —  so  proud  and  happy 
that  perhaps  he'd  think  I  really  had  made  up  for 
Jerry  and  Ned,  and  his  own  lost  hopes. 

"And,  now,  look  at  me!  Useless,  worse  than 
useless  —  all  my  life  a  burden  to  him  and  to  every- 
body else.  Susan,  I  can't  stand  it.  I  can't.  That's 
why  I  want  to  end  it  all.  It  would  be  so  simple  — - 
such  an  easy  way  —  out." 

"Yes,  'twould — for  quitters.  Quitters  always 
take  easy  ways  out.  But  you  ain't  no  quitter,  Keith 
Burton.  Besides,  't  would  n't  end  it.  You  know 
that.  'T  would  jest  be  shuttin'  the  door  of  this 
room  an'  openin'  the  one  to  the  next.  You  've  had 
a  good  Christian  bringin'  up,  Keith  Burton,  an' 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  your  eternal,  im- 
moral soul  ain't  goin'  to  be  snuffled  out  of  existence 


JOHN  McGUIRE  225 

by  no  pistol  shot,  no  matter  how  many  times  you 
pull  the  jigger." 

Keith  laughed  —  and  with  the  laugh  his  tense 
muscles  relaxed. 

"All  right,  Susan,"  he  shrugged  a  little  grimly. 
"I'll  concede  your  point.  You  made  it  —  perhaps 
better  than  you  know.  But  —  well,  it  is  n't  so 
pleasant  always  to  be  the  hook,  you  know,"  he 
finished  bitterly. 

"The  —  hook?"  frowned  Susan. 

Keith  laughed  again  grimly. 

"Perhaps  you've  forgotten  —  but  I  have  n't.  I 
heard  you  talking  to  Mrs.  McGuire  one  day.  You 
said  that  everybody  was  either  a  hook  or  an  eye, 
and  that  more  than  half  the  folks  were  hooks 
hanging  on  to  somebody  else.  And  that's  why 
some  eyes  had  more  than  their  share  of  hooks  hang- 
ing on  to  them.  You  see  —  I  remembered.  I  knew 
then,  when  you  said  it,  that  I  was  a  hook,  and  — " 

"Keith  Burton,  I  never  thought  of  you  when  I 
said  that,"  interrupted  Susan  agitatedly. 

"Perhaps  not;  but  /  did.  Why,  Susan,  of  course 
I  'm  a  hook  —  an  old,  bent,  rusty  hook.  But  I  can 
hang  on  —  oh,  yes,  I  can  hang  on  —  to  anybody 
that  will  let  me!  But,  Susan,  don't  you  see?  — 
sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I'd  give  the  whole  world 
if  just  for  once  I  could  feel  that  I  —  that  some  one 
was  hanging  on  to  me!  that  I  was  of  some  use 
somewhere." 

"An'  so  you're  goin'  to  be,  honey.  I  know  you 
be,"  urged  Susan  eagerly.     "Just  remember  all 


226  DAWN 

them  fellers  that  wrote  books  an'  give  lecturin's, 
an  — 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  interposed  Keith,  with  a 
faint  smile.  "You  were  a  good  old  soul,  Susan,  to 
read  me  all  those  charming  tales,  and  I  understood, 
of  course,  what  you  were  doing  it  for.  You  wanted 
me  to  go  and  do  likewise.  But  I  could  n't  write 
a  book  to  save  my  soul,  Susan,  and  my  voice  would 
stick  in  my  throat  at  the  second  word  of  a  'lec- 
turing.' " 

"But  there'll  be  somethin',  Keith,  I  know 
there'll  be  somethin'.  God  never  locked  up  the 
doors  of  your  eyes  without  givin'  you  the  key  to 
some  other  door.  It's  jest  that  you  hain't  found 
it  yet." 

"  Perhaps.  I  certainly  have  n't  found  it  — ■  that 's 
sure,"  retorted  the  lad  bitterly.  "And  just  why 
He  saw  fit  to  send  me  this  blindness  — " 

"We  don't  have  to  know,"  interposed  Susan 
quickly;  "an'  questionin'  about  it  don't  settle 
nothin',  anyhow.  If  we've  got  it,  we've  got  it,  an' 
if  it's  somethin'  we  can't  possibly  help,  the  only 
questionin'  worth  anything  then  is  how  are  we 
goin'  to  stand  it.  You  see,  there's  more'n  one 
way  of  standin'  things." 

"Yes,  I  know  there  is."  Keith  stirred  restlessly 
in  his  seat. 

"An'  some  ways  is  better  than  others." 

"There,  there,  Susan,  I  know  just  what  you're 
going  to  say,  and  it's  all  very  true,  of  course,"  cried 
Keith,  stirring  still  more  restlessly.    "But  you  see 


JOHN  McGUIRE  227 

I  don't  happen  to  feel  like  hearing  it  just  now. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  I've  got  lots  to  be  thankful  for. 
I  can  hear,  and  feel,  and  taste,  and  walk;  and  I 
should  be  glad  for  all  of  them.  And  I  am,  of  course. 
I  should  declare  that  all 's  well  with  the  world,  and 
that  both  sides  of  the  street  are  sunny,  and  that 
there  is  n't  any  shadow  anywhere.  There,  you 
see !  I  know  all  that  you  would  say,  Susan,  and  I  've 
said  it,  so  as  to  save  you  the  trouble." 

"Humph!"  commented  Susan,  bridling  a  little; 
then  suddenly,  she  gave  a  sly  chuckle.  "That's  all 
very  well  an'  good,  Master  Keith  Burton,  but 
there 's  one  more  thing  I  would  have  said  if  I  was 
doin'  the  sayin'!" 

"Well?" 

"About  that  both  sides  of  the  street  bein* 
sunny  —  it  seems  to  me  that  the  man  what  says, 
yes,  he  knows  one  side  is  shady  an'  troubleous,  but 
that  he  thinks  it  '11  be  healthier  an'  happier  for  him 
an'  everybody  else  'round  him  if  he  walks  on  the 
sunny  side,  an'  then  walks  there  —  it  seems  to  me 
he 's  got  the  spots  all  knocked  off  that  feller  what 
says  there  ain't  no  shady  side!" 

Keith  gave  a  low  laugh  —  a  laugh  more  nearly 
normal  than  Susan  had  heard  him  give  for  several 
days. 

"All  right,  Susan,  I'll  accept  your  amendment, 
and  —  we  '11  let  it  go  that  one  side  is  shady,  and 
that  I  'm  supposed  to  determinedly  pick  the  sunny 
side.   Anything  more?" 

"M-more?" 


228  DAWN 

"That  you  came  up  to  say  to  me  —  yes.  You 
know  I  have  just  saved  you  the  trouble  of  saying 
part  of  it." 

"Oh!"  Susan  laughed  light-heartedly.  (This 
was  Keith  —  her  Keith  that  she  knew.)  "No, 
that's  all  I  — "  She  stopped  short  in  dismay. 
All  the  color  and  lightness  disappeared  from  her 
face,  leaving  it  suddenly  white  and  drawn.  "That 
is,"  she  faltered,  "there  was  somethin'  else  — 
I  was  goin'  to  say,  about  —  about  John  McGuire. 
He—" 

"I  don't  care  to  hear  it."  Keith  had  frozen 
instantly  into  frigid  aloofness.  Stern  lines  had 
come  to  his  boyish  mouth. 

"But  —  but,  Keith,  Mrs.  McGuire  came  over 
to—" 

"To  read  another  of  those  precious  letters,  of 
course,"  cut  in  Keith  angrily, "  but  I  tell  you  I  don't 
want  to  hear  it.  Do  you  suppose  a  caged  bird  likes 
to  hear  of  the  woods  and  fields  and  tree-tops  while 
he's  tied  to  a  three-inch  swing  between  two  gilt 
bars?  Well,  hardly!  There's  lots  that  I  do  have 
to  stand,  Susan,  but  I  don't  have  to  stand  that." 

Susan  caught  her  breath  with  a  half  sob. 

"But,  Keith,  I  was  n't  going  to  tell  you  of  —  of 
woods  an'  fields  an'  tree-tops  this  time.  You  see  — 
now  he's  in  a  cage  himself." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"He's  coming  home.   He's  —  blind." 

Keith  leaped  from  his  chair. 

"  Blind  ?  John  McGuire  ?  " 


JOHN  McGUHtE  229 

"Yes." 

"Oh-h-h!"  Long  years  of  past  suffering  and  of 
future  woe  filled  the  short  little  word  to  bursting, 
as  Keith  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  sat  silent,  his  whole  self  held  rigid.  Then, 
unsteadily  he  asked  the  question: 

"What  — happened?" 

"They  don't  know.  It  was  a  dispatch  that  came 
this  mornin'.  He  was  blinded,  an'  is  on  his  way 
home.  That's  all." 

"That's  — enough." 

"Yes,  I  knew  you'd  —  understand." 

"Yes,  I  do  —  understand." 

Susan  hesitated.  Keith  still  sat,  with  his  unsee- 
ing gaze  straight  ahead,  his  body  tense  and  motion- 
less. On  the  desk  within  reach  lay  the  revolver. 
Cautiously  Susan  half  extended  her  hand  toward 
it,  then  drew  it  back.  She  glanced  again  at  Keith's 
absorbed  face,  then  turned  and  made  her  way 
quietly  down  the  stairs. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  attic  flight  she  glanced  back. 

"  He  won't  touch  it;  now,  I  'm  sure,"  she  breathed. 
"An',  anyhow,  we  only  take  knives  an'  pizen  away 
from  children  —  not  grown  men!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AS  SUSAN  SAW  IT 

IT  was  the  town  talk,  of  course  —  the  home- 
coming of  John  McGuire.  Men  gathered  on 
street  corners  and  women  clustered  about  back- 
yard fences  and  church  doorways.  Children  be- 
sieged their  parents  with  breathless  questions,  and 
repeated  to  each  other  in  awe-struck  whispers  what 
they  had  heard.  Everywhere  was  horror,  sym- 
pathy, and  interested  speculation  as  to  "how  he'd 
take  it." 

Where  explicit  information  was  so  lacking,  im- 
agination and  surmise  eagerly  supplied  the  de- 
tails; and  Mrs.  McGuire's  news  of  the  blinding  of 
John  McGuire  was  not  three  days  old  before  a  full 
account  of  the  tragedy  from  beginning  to  end  was 
flying  from  tongue  to  tongue  —  an  account  that 
would  have  surprised  no  one  so  greatly  as  it  would 
have  surprised  John  McGuire  himself. 

To  Susan,  Dorothy  Parkman  came  one  day  with 
this  story. 

"Well,  't  ain't  true,"  disavowed  Susan  succinctly 
when  the  lurid  details  had  been  breathlessly  re- 
peated to  her. 

"You  mean  —  he  isn't  blind?"  demanded  the 
young  girl. 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  blind,  all  right,  poor  boy!  But 
it's  the  rest  I  mean  —  about  his  killin'  twenty- 


AS  SUSAN  SAW  IT  231 

eight  Germans  single-handed,  an'  bein'  all  shot 
to  pieces  hisself,  an'  benighted  for  bravery." 

"But  what  did  happen?" 

"We  don't  know.  We  just  know  he's  blind  an* 
comin'  home.  Mis'  McGuire  had  two  letters  yes- 
terday from  John,  but  — •" 

"From  John  —  himself?" 

"Yes;  but  they  was  both  writ  long  before  the 
apostrophe,  an'  'course  they  did  n't  say  nothin' 
about  it.  He  was  well  an'  happy,  he  said.  She  had 
had  only  one  letter  before  these  for  a  long  time. 
An'  now  to  have  —  this ! " 

"Yes,  I  know.  It's  terrible.  How  does  —  Mr. 
Keith  take  it?" 

Susan  opened  wide  her  eyes. 

"Why,  you've  seen  him  —  you  see  him  yester- 
day yourself,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"Oh,  I  saw  him  —  in  a  way,  but  not  the  real 
him,  Susan.   He's  miles  away  now,  always." 

"You  mean  he  ain't  civil  an'  polite?"  demanded 
Susan. 

"Oh,  he's  very  civil  — too  civil,  Susan.  Every 
time  I  go  I  say  I  won't  go  again.  Then,  when  I  get 
to  thinking  of  him  sitting  there  alone  all  day,  and 
of  how  he  used  to  like  to  have  me  read  to  him  and 
play  with  him,  I  —  I  just  have  to  go  and  see  if  he 
won't  be  the  same  as  he  used  to  be.  But  he  never 
is." 

"I  know."  Susan  shook  her  head  mournfully. 
"An'  he  ain't  the  same,  Miss  Dorothy.  He  don't 
ever  whistle  nor  sing  now,  nor  play  solitary,  nor  any 


232  DAWN 

of  them  things  he  used  to  do.  Oh,  when  folks  comes 
in  he  braces  back  an'  talks  an'  laughs.  You  know 
that.  But  in  the  exclusion  of  his  own  home  here, 
he  jest  sits  an'  thinks  an'  thinks  an'  thinks.  An', 
Miss  Dorothy,  I  've  found  out  now  what  he 's  think- 
in'  of." 

"Yes?" 

"It's  John  McGuire  an'  them  other  soldiers 
what's  comin'  back  blind  from  the  war.  An'  he 
talks  an'  talks  about  'em,  an'  mourns  an'  takes  on 
something  dreadful.  He  says  he  knows  what  it 
means,  an'  that  nobody  can  know  what  hain't 
had  it  happen  to  'em.  An'  he  broods  an'  broods 
over  it." 

"I  can  —  imagine  it."  The  girl  said  it  with  a 
little  catch  in  her  voice. 

"An'  —  an'  there's  somethin'  else  I  want  to  tell 
you  about.  I've  got  to  tell  somebody.  I  want  to 
know  if  you  think  I  done  right.  An'  you  're  the  only 
one  I  can  tell.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  Daniel 
Burton  is  too  near,  an'  Mis'  McGuire  an'  all  them 
others  is  too  far.  You  ain't  a  relation,  an'  yet 
you  care.  You  do  care,  don't  you?  —  about  Mr. 
Keith?" 

"Why,  of  —  of  course.  I  care  a  great  deal,  Su- 
san." Miss  Dorothy  spoke  very  lightly,  very  imper- 
sonally; but  there  was  a  sudden  flame  of  color  in 
her  face.  Susan,  however,  was  not  noticing  this. 
Furtively  she  was  glancing  one  way  and  another 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Yes.    Well,  the  other  day  he  — he  tried  to  — 


AS  SUSAN  SAW  IT  233 

that  is,  well,  I  —  I  found  him  with  a  pistol  in  his 
hand,  an'  — " 

"Susan!"   The  girl  had  gone  very  white. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  do  it.  Well,  that  ain't  a  very 
sensitive  statement,  is  it?  For  if  he  had  done  it, 
he  wouldn't  be  alive  now,  would  he?"  broke  off 
Susan,  with  a  faint  smile.  "But  what  I  mean  is, 
he  did  n't  do  it,  an'  I  don't  think  he 's  goin'  to 
do  it." 

"But,  oh,  Susan,"  faltered  the  girl,  "you  did  n't 
leave  that  —  that  awful  thing  with  him,  did  you? 
Did  n't  you  take  it  —  away?" 

"No."  Susan's  mouth  set  grimly.  "An'  that's 
what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  —  if  I  did  right, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Susan!  I'm  afraid,"  shuddered  the 
girl.    " Can't  you  —  get  it  away  —  now?  " 

"Maybe.  I  know  where  'tis.  I  was  up  there 
yesterday  an'  see  it.  'T  was  in  the  desk  drawer  in 
the  attic,  jest  where  it  used  to  be." 

"Then  get  it,  Susan,  get  it.  Oh,  please  get  it," 
begged  the  girl.  "I'm  afraid  to  have  it  there  — 
a  single  minute." 

"But,  Miss  Dorothy,  stop;  wait  jest  a  minute. 
Think.  How 's  he  goin'  to  get  self -defiance  an'  make 
a  strong  man  of  hisself  if  we  take  things  away  from 
him  like  he  was  a  little  baby?" 

"I  know,  Susan;  but  if  he  should  be  tempted  — " 

"He  won't.  He  ain't  no  more.  I 'm  sure  of  that. 
I  talked  with  him.  Besides,  I  hain't  caught  him  up 
there  once  since  that  day  last  week.    Oh,  I'm  free 


234  DAWN 

to  confess  I  have  watched  him,"  admitted  Susan 
defensively,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"But  what  did  happen  that  day  you  —  you 
found  him?" 

"Oh,  he  had  it,  handlin'  it,  an*  when  he  heard 
me,  he  jumped  a  little,  an'  hid  it  under  some  papers. 
My,  Miss  Dorothy,  't  was  awful.  I  was  that  scared 
an'  frightened  I  thought  I  could  n't  move.  But  I 
knew  I  'd  got  to,  an'  I  knew  I  'd  got  to  move  right, 
too,  or  I'd  spoil  everything.  This  wa'n't  no  ten- 
cent  melodydrama  down  to  the  movies,  but  I  had 
a  humane  soul  there  before  me,  an'  I  knew  maybe 
it 's  whole  internal  salvation  might  depend  on  what 
I  said  an'  did." 

"But  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  somehow,  when 
it  was  over,  I  had  a  feelin'  that  he  would  n't  never 
do  that  thing  again.  That  somehow  the  man  in  him 
was  on  top,  an'  would  stay  on  top.  An'  I'm  more 
sure  than  ever  of  it  now.  He  ain't  thinkin'  of  his- 
self  these  days.  It's  John  McGuire  and  them  others. 
An'  ain't  it  better  that  he  let  that  pistol  alone  of  his 
own  free  will  an'  accordance,  an'  know  he  was  a  man 
an'  no  baby,  than  if  I'd  taken  it  away  from  him?" 

"I  suppose  —  it  was,  Susan;  but  I  don't  think  I  'd 
have  been  strong  enough  —  to  make  him  strong." 

"Yes,  you  would,  if  you'd  been  there.  I  reckon 
we  're  all  goin'  to  learn  to  do  a  lot  of  things  we  never 
did  before,  now  that  the  war  has  come." 

"Yes,  I  know."  A  quivering  pain  swept  across 
the  young  girl's  face. 


AS  SUSAN  SAW  IT  235 

"Somehow,  the  war  never  seemed  real  to  me 
before.  'T  was  jest  somethin'  'way  off  —  a  lot  of 
Dagoes  an'  Dutchmen,  like  the  men  what  dug 
up  the  McGuires'  frozen  water-pipes  last  spring, 
fightin'.  Not  our  kind  of  folks  what  talked  Eng- 
lish. Even  when  I  read  the  papers,  an'  the  awful 
things  they  did  over  there  —  it  did  n't  seem  as  if 
't  was  folks  on  our  earth.  It  was  like  somethin' 
you  read  about  in  them  old  histronic  days,  or  some- 
thin'  happenin'  up  on  the  moon,  or  on  that  planta- 
tion of  Mars.  Oh,  of  course,  I  knew  John  McGuire 
had  gone;  but  somehow  I  never  thought  of  him  as 
fightin'  —  not  with  guns  an'  bloody  gore,  in  spite 
of  them  letters  of  his.  Some  way,  in  my  mind's  eyes 
I  always  see  him  marchin'  with  flags  flyin'  an'  folks 
cheerin';  an'  I  thought  the  war'd  be  over,  anyhow, 
by  the  time  he  got  there. 

"But,  now — !  Why,  now  they're  all  gone  — 
our  own  Teddy  Somers,  an'  Tom  Spencer,  an'  little 
Jacky  Green  that  I  used  to  hold  on  my  knee.  Some 
of  'em  in  France,  an'  some  of  'em  in  them  army  can- 
teens down  to  Ayer  an'  Texas  an'  everywhere.  An' 
poor  Tom 's  died  already  of  pneumonia  right  here  in 
our  own  land.  An'  now  poor  John  McGuire !  I  tell 
you,  Miss  Dorothy,  it  brings  it  right  home  now  to 
your  own  heart,  where  it  hurts." 

"It  certainly  does,  Susan." 

"An'  let  me  tell  you.  What  do  you  s'pose, 
more  'n  anything  else,  made  me  see  how  really  big 
it  all  is?" 

"I  don't  know,  Susan." 


236  DAWN 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  'T  was  because  I  could  n't 
write  a  poem  on  it." 

"Sure  enough,  Susan!  I  don't  believe  I've  heard 
you  make  a  rhyme  to-day,"  smiled  Miss  Dorothy. 

Susan  sighed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  don't  make  'em  much  now. 
Somehow  they  don't  sing  all  the  time  in  my  heart, 
an'  burst  out  natural-like,  as  they  used  to.  I  think 
them  days  when  I  tried  so  hard  to  sell  my  poems, 
an'  could  n't,  kinder  took  the  jest  out  of  poetizin' 
for  me.  Somehow,  when  you  find  out  somethin'  is 
invaluable  to  other  folks,  it  gets  so  it's  invaluable 
to  you,  I  s'pose.  Still,  even  now,  when  I  set  right 
down  to  it,  I  can  'most  always  write  'em  right  off 
'most  as  quick  as  I  used  to.  But  I  could  n't  on 
this  war.  I  tried  it.  But  it  jest  would  n't  do.  I 
begun  it: 

Oh,  woe  is  me,  said  the  bayonet, 
Oh,  woe  is  me,  said  the  sword. 

Then  the  whole  awful  frightfulness  of  it  an'  the 
bigness  of  it  seemed  to  swallow  me  up,  an'  I  felt 
like  a  little  pigment  overtopped  an'  surrounded  by 
great  tall  mountains  of  horror  that  were  tumblin' 
down  one  after  another  on  my  head,  an'  buryin' 
me  down  so  far  an'  deep  that  I  could  n't  say  any- 
thing, only  to  moan,  'Oh,  Lord,  how  long,  oh,  Lord, 
how  long?'  An'  I  knew  then  't  was  too  big  for  me. 
I  did  n't  try  to  write  no  more." 

"I  can  see  how  you  could  n't,"  faltered  the  girl, 
as  she  turned  away.  "I'm  afraid  —  we're  all  going 
to  find  it  —  too  big  for  us." 


CHAPTER  XXV 
KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE 

JOHN  McGUIRE  had  not  been  home  twenty- 
four  hours  before  it  was  known  that  he  "took 
it  powerful  hard." 

To  Keith  Susan  told  what  she  had  learned. 

"They  say  he  utterly  refuses  to  see  any  one  out- 
side the  family;  an'  that  he'd  rather  not  see  even 
his  own  folks  —  that  he 's  always  askin'  'em  to  let 
him  alone." 

"Is  he  ill  or  wounded  otherwise?"  asked  Keith. 

"No,  he  ain't  hurt  outwardly  or  infernally,  ex- 
cept his  eyes,  an'  he  says  that 's  the  worst  of  it,  one 
woman  told  me.  He 's  as  sound  as  a  nut,  an'  good 
for  a  hundred  years  yet.  If  he  'd  only  been  smashed 
up  good  an'  solid,  so 's  he  'd  have  some  hope  of  dyin' 
pretty  quick,  he  would  n't  mind  it,  he  says.  But  to 
live  along  like  this  — !  —  oh,  he's  in  an  awful  state 
of  mind,  everybody  says." 

"I  can  —  imagine  it,"  sighed  Keith.  And  by 
the  way  he  turned  away  Susan  knew  that  he  did 
not  care  to  talk  any  more. 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  McGuire  hurried  into  Susan's 
kitchen.  Mrs.  McGuire  was  looking  thin  and  worn 
these  days.  From  her  half-buttoned  shoes  to  her 
half-combed  hair  she  was  showing  the  results  of 
strain  and  anxiety.  With  a  long  sigh  she  dropped 
into  one  of  the  kitchen  chairs. 


238  DAWN 

"Well,  Mis'  McGuire,  if  you  ain't  the  stranger!" 
Susan  greeted  her  cordially. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  sighed  Mrs.  McGuire.  "But,  you 
see,  I  can't  leave  —  him."  As  she  spoke  she  looked 
anxiously  through  the  window  toward  her  own  door. 
"Mr.  McGuire 's  with  him,  now,  so  I  got  away." 

"But  there's  Bess  an'  Harry,"  began  Susan. 

"We  don't  leave  him  with  the  children,  ever," 
interposed  Mrs.  McGuire,  with  another  hurried 
glance  through  the  window.  "We  —  don't  dare 
to.  You  see,  once  we  found  —  we  found  him  with 
his  father's  old  pistol.  Oh,  Susan,  it  —  it  was 
awful!" 

"Yes,  it  —  must  have  been."  Susan,  after  one 
swift  glance  into  her  visitor's  face,  had  turned  her 
back  suddenly.  She  was  busy  now  with  the  damp- 
ers of  her  kitchen  stove. 

"Of  course  we  took  it  right  away,"  went  on 
Mrs.  McGuire,  "an'  put  it  where  he'll  never  get  it 
again.  But  we're  always  afraid  there'll  be  some- 
thin'  somewhere  that  he  will  get  hold  of.  You  see, 
he's  so  despondent  —  in  such  a  terrible  state!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan.  Susan  had  aban- 
doned her  dampers,  and  had  turned  right  about 
face  again.   "If  only  he'd  see  folks  now." 

"Yes,  an'  that's  what  I  came  over  to  talk  to  you 
about,"  cried  Mrs.  McGuire  eagerly.  "We  have  n't 
been  able  to  get  him  to  see  anybody  —  not  any- 
body. But  I  've  been  wonderin'  if  he  would  n't 
see  Keith,  if  we  could  work  it  right.  You  see  he  says 
he  just  won't  be  stared  at;  an'  Keith,  poor  boy, 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  239 

could  n't  stare,  an'  John  knows  it.  Oh,  Susan,  do 
you  suppose  we  could  manage  it?" 

"Why,  of  course.  I'll  tell  him  right  away,  an' 
he'll  go  over;  I  know  he'll  go!"  exclaimed  Susan, 
all  interest  at  once. 

"Oh,  but  that  wouldn't  do  at  all!"  cried  Mrs. 
McGuire.  "Don't  you  see?  John  refuses,  absolutely 
refuses,  to  see  any  one;  an'  he  would  n't  see  Keith, 
if  I  should  ask  him  to.  But  he 's  interested  in  Keith 

—  I  know  he 's  that,  for  once,  when  I  was  talkin' 
to  Mr.  McGuire  about  Keith,  John  broke  in  an' 
asked  two  or  three  questions,  an'  he's  never  done 
that  before,  about  anybody.  An'  so  I  was  pretty 
sure  it  was  because  Keith  was  blind,  you  know,  like 
himself." 

"Yes,  I  see,  I  see." 

"An'  if  I  can  only  manage  it  so  they'll  meet 
without  John's  knowin'  they're  goin'  to,  I  believe 
he'll  get  to  talkin'  with  him  before  he  knows  it; 
an'  that  it'll  do  him  a  world  of  good.  Anyway, 
somethin'  's  got  to  be  done,  Susan  —  it 's  got  to  be 

—  to  get  him  out  of  this  awful  state  he's  in." 
"Well,  we'll  do  it.   I  know  we  can  do  it  some 

way." 

"You  think  Keith '11  do  his  part?"  Mrs.  Mc- 
Guire's  eyes  were  anxious. 

"I'm  sure  he  will  —  when  he  understands." 
"Then  listen,"  proposed  Mrs.  McGuire  eagerly. 
"I'll  get  my  John  out  on  to  the  back  porch  to- 
morrow mornin'.    That's  the  only  place  outdoors 
I  can  get  him  —  he  can't  be  seen  from  the  street 


240  DAWN 

there,  you  know.  I'll  get  him  there  as  near  ten 
o'clock  as  I  can.  You  be  on  the  watch,  an'  as  soon 
as  I  get  him  all  nicely  fixed,  you  get  Keith  to  come 
out  into  your  yard  an'  stroll  over  to  the  fence  an* 
speak  to  him,  an'  then  come  up  on  to  the  porch 
an'  sit  down,  just  naturally.  He  can  do  that  all 
right,  can't  he?  It's  just  wonderful  —  the  way  he 
gets  around  everywhere,  with  that  little  cane  of 
his!" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes." 

"Well,  I  thought  he  could.  An'  tell  him  to  keep 
right  on  talkin'  every  minute  so  my  John  won't 
have  a  chance  to  get  up  an'  go  into  the  house.  Of 
course,  I  shall  be  there  myself,  at  first.  We  never 
leave  him  alone,  you  know.  But  as  soon  as  Keith 
comes,  I  shall  go.  They'll  get  along  better  by 
themselves,  I'm  sure  —  only,  of  course,  I  shall  be 
where  I  can  keep  watch  out  of  the  window.  Now 
do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  an'  we  can  do  it.   I  know  we  can  do  it." 

"All  right,  then.  I'm  not  so  sure  we  can,  but 
we'll  try  it,  anyway,"  sighed  Mrs.  McGuire,  rising 
to  her  feet,  the  old  worry  back  on  her  face.  "Well, 
I  must  be  goin'.  Mr.  McGuire '11  have  a  fit.  He's 
as  nervous  as  a  witch  when  he's  left  alone  with 
John.  There!  What  did  I  tell  you?"  she  broke  off, 
with  an  expressive  gesture  and  glance,  as  a  care- 
worn-looking man  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
house  across  the  two  back  yards,  and  peered  anx- 
iously over  at  the  Burtons'  kitchen  door.  "Now, 
don't  forget  —  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  mornin'." 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  241 

"I  won't  forget,"  promised  Susan  cheerfully, 
"Now,  do  you  go  home  an'  set  easy,  Mis'  McGuire, 
an'  don't  you  fret  no  more.  It's  comin'  out  all 
right  —  all  right,  I  tell  you,"  she  reiterated,  as 
Mrs.  McGuire  hurried  through  the  doorway. 

But  when  Mrs.  McGuire  was  gone  Susan  drew 
a  dubious  sigh;  and  her  cheery  smile  had  turned  to 
a  questioning  frown  as  she  went  in  search  of  Keith. 
Very  evidently  Susan  was  far  from  feeling  quite 
so  sure  about  Keith's  cooperation  as  she  would 
have  Mrs.  McGuire  think. 

Keith  was  in  the  living-room,  his  head  bowed  in 
his  two  hands,  his  elbows  on  the  table  before  him. 
At  the  first  sound  of  Susan's  steps  he  lifted  his  head 
with  a  jerk. 

"I  was  lookin'  for  you,"  began  Susan  the  mo- 
ment she  had  crossed  the  threshold.  Susan  had 
learned  that  Keith  hated  above  all  things  to  have 
to  speak  first,  or  to  ask,  "Who  is  it?"  "Mis' 
McGuire 's  jest  been  here." 

"Yes,  I  heard  her  voice,"  returned  the  boy  in- 
differently. 

"She  was  tellin'  about  her  John." 

"How  is  he  getting  along?" 

"  He 's  in  a  bad  way.  Oh,  he 's  real  well  physician- 
ally,  but  he's  in  a  bad  way  in  his  mind." 

"Well,  you  don't  wonder,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  'course  not.  Still,  well,  for  one  thing, 
he  don't  like  to  see  folks." 

"Strange!  Now,  I'd  think  he'd  just  dote  on 
seeing  folks,  would  n't  you?" 


242  DAWN 

Susan  caught  the  full  force  of  the  sarcasm,  but 
superbly  she  ignored  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  —  maybe;  but,  anyhow,  he 
don't,  an'  Mis'  McGuire  's  that  worried  she  don't 
know  what  to  do.  You  see,  she  found  him  once 
with  his  daddy's  pistol"  —  Susan  was  talking  very 
fast  now  — ■  "an'  'course  that  worked  her  up  some- 
thin'  terrible.  I  'm  afraid  he  hain't  got  much  back- 
bone. They  don't  dare  to  leave  him  alone  a  min- 
ute —  not  a  minute.  An'  Mis'  McGuire,  she  was 
wonderin'  if  —  if  you  could  n't  help  'em  out  some 
way." 

"J?w  The  short  ejaculation  was  full  of  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes.  That's  what  she  come  over  for  this 
mornin'." 

"I?  They  forget."  Keith  fell  back  bitterly. 
"John  McGuire  might  get  hold  of  a  dozen  revol- 
vers, and  I  would  n't  know  it." 

"Oh,  't  wa'n't  that.  They  didn't  want  you  to 
watch  him.  They  wanted  you  to —  Well,  it's  jest 
this.  Mis'  McGuire  thought  as  how  if  she  could 
get  her  John  out  on  the  back  porch,  an'  you  hap- 
pened to  be  in  our  back  yard,  an'  should  go  over 
an'  speak  to  him,  maybe  you  'd  get  to  talkin'  with 
him,  an'  go  up  an'  sit  down.  She  thought  maybe 
't  would  get  him  out  of  hisself  that  way.  You  see, 
he  won't  talk  to  —  to  most  folks.  He  don't  like  to 
be  stared  at."  (Susan  threw  a  furtive  glance  into 
Keith's  face,  then  looked  quickly  away.)  "But  she 
thought  maybe  he  would  talk  to  you." 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  243 

"Yes,  I  —  see."  Keith  drew  in  his  breath  with 
a  little  catch. 

"An'  so  she  said  there  wa'n't  anybody  any- 
where that  could  help  so  much  as  you  —  if  you 
would." 

"Why,  of  course,  if  I  really  could  help  — " 

Susan  did  not  need  to  look  into  Keith's  face  to 
catch  the  longing  and  heart-hunger  and  dawning 
hope  in  the  word  left  suspended  on  his  lips.  She 
felt  her  own  throat  tighten;  but  in  a  moment  she 
managed  to  speak  with  steady  cheerfulness. 

"Well,  you  can.  You  can  help  a  whole  lot.  I'm 
sure  you  can.  An'  Mis'  McGuire  is,  too.  An' 
what's  more,  you're  the  only  one  what  can  help 
'em,  in  this  case.  So  we'll  keep  watch  to-morrow 
mornin',  an'  when  he  comes  out  on  the  porch  — 
well,  we'll  see  what  we  will  see."  And  Susan,  just 
as  if  her  own  heart  was  not  singing  a  triumphant 
echo  of  the  song  she  knew  was  in  his,  turned  away 
with  an  elaborate  air  of  indifference. 

Yet,  when  to-morrow  came,  and  when  Keith 
went  out  into  the  yard  in  response  to  the  presence 
of  John  McGuire  on  his  back  porch,  the  result  was 
most  disappointing  —  to  Susan.  To  Keith  it  did 
not  seem  to  be  so  much  so.  But  perhaps  Keith  had 
not  expected  quite  what  Susan  had  expected.  At 
all  events,  Keith  came  back  to  the  house  with  a 
glow  on  his  face  and  a  springiness  in  his  step  that 
Susan  had  not  seen  there  for  months.  Yet  all  that 
had  happened  was  that  Keith  had  called  out  from 
the  gate  a  pleasant  "Good-morning!"  to  the  blinded 


244  DAWN 

soldier,  and  had  followed  it  with  an  inconsequential 
word  or  two  about  the  weather.  John  McGuire 
had  answered  a  crisp,  cold  something,  and  had 
risen  at  once  to  go  into  the  house.  Keith,  at  the 
first  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  porch  floor,  had  turned 
with  a  cheery  "Well,  I  must  be  going  back  to  the 
house."  Whereupon  John  McGuire  had  sat  down 
again,  and  Mrs.  McGuire,  who  at  Keith's  first 
words,  had  started  to  her  feet,  dropped  back  into 
her  chair. 

Apparently  not  much  accomplished,  certainly; 
yet  there  was  the  glow  on  Keith's  face  and  the 
springiness  in  Keith's  step;  and  when  he  reached 
the  kitchen,  he  said  this  to  Susan: 

"The  next  time  John  McGuire  is  on  the  back 
porch,  please  let  me  know." 

And  Susan  let  him  know,  both  then  and  at  sub- 
sequent times. 

It  was  a  pretty  game  and  one  well  worth  the 
watching.  Certainly  Susan  and  Mrs.  McGuire 
thought  it  so.  On  the  one  side  were  persistence  and 
perseverance  and  infinite  tact.  On  the  other  were 
a  distrustful  antagonism  and  a  palpable  longing 
for  an  understanding  companionship. 

At  first  the  intercourse  between  the  two  blind 
youths  consisted  of  a  mere  word  or  two  tossed  by 
Keith  to  the  other  who  gave  a  still  shorter  word  in 
reply.  And  even  this  was  not  every  day,  for  John 
McGuire  was  not  out  on  the  porch  every  day.  But 
as  the  month  passed,  he  came  more  and  more  fre- 
quently, and  one  evening  Mrs.  McGuire  confided 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  245 

to  Susan  the  fact  that  John  seemed  actually  to  fret 
now  if  a  storm  kept  him  indoors. 

"  An'  he  listens  for  Keith  to  come  along  the  fence 
—  I  know  he  does,"  she  still  further  declared.  "Oh, 
I  know  he  does  n't  let  him  say  much  yet,  but  he 
has  n't  jumped  up  to  go  into  the  house  once  since 
those  first  two  or  three  times,  an'  that's  somethin'. 
An'  what's  more,  he  let  Keith  stay  a  whole  min- 
ute at  the  gate  talkin'  yesterday!"  she  finished  in 
triumph. 

"Yes,  an'  the  best  of  it  is,"  chimed  in  Susan, 
"it's  helpin'  Keith  Burton  hisself  jest  as  much  as 
't  is  John  McGuire.  Why,  he  ain't  the  same  boy 
since  he 's  took  to  tryin'  to  get  your  John  to  talkin'. 
An'  he  asks  me  a  dozen  times  a  mornin'  if  John's 
out  on  the  porch  yet.  An'  when  he  is  out  there,  he 
don't  lose  no  time  in  goin'  out  hisself." 

Yet  it  was  the  very  next  morning  that  Keith, 
after  eagerly  asking  if  John  McGuire  were  on  the 
back  porch,  did  not  go  out.  Instead  he  settled 
back  in  his  chair  and  picked  up  one  of  his  em- 
bossed books. 

Susan  frowned  in  amazed  wonder,  and  opened 
her  lips  as  if  to  speak.  But  after  a  glance  at 
Keith's  apparently  absorbed  face,  she  turned  and 
went  back  to  her  work  in  the  kitchen.  Twice  dur- 
ing the  next  ten  minutes,  however,  she  invented  an 
excuse  to  pass  again  through  the  living-room, 
where  Keith  sat.  Yet,  though  she  said  a  pointed 
something  each  time  about  John  McGuire  on  the 
back  porch,  Keith  did  not  respond  save  with  an 


246  DAWN 

indifferent  word  or  two.  And,  greatly  to  her  indig- 
nation, he  was  still  sitting  in  his  chair  with  his 
book  when  at  noon  John  McGuire,  on  the  porch 
across  the  back  yard,  rose  from  his  seat  and  went 
into  the  house. 

Susan  was  still  more  indignant  when,  the  next 
morning,  the  same  programme  was  repeated  — 
except  for  the  fact  that  Susan's  reminders  of  John 
McGuire's  presence  on  the  back  porch  were  even 
more  pointed  than  they  had  been  on  the  day  before. 
Again  the  third  morning  it  was  the  same.  Susan 
resolved  then  to  speak.  She  said  to  herself  that 
"patience  had  ceased  to  be  virtuous,"  and  she  lay 
awake  half  that  night  rehearsing  a  series  of  argu- 
ments and  pleadings  which  she  meant  to  present 
the  next  morning.  She  was  the  more  incited  to  this 
owing  to  Mrs.  McGuire's  distracted  reproaches  the 
evening  before. 

"Why,  John  has  asked  for  him,  actually  asked 
for  him,"  Mrs.  McGuire  had  wept.  "An'  it  is  cruel, 
the  crudest  thing  I  ever  saw,  to  get  that  poor  boy 
all  worked  up  to  the  point  of  really  wantirC  to  talk 
with  him,  an'  then  stay  away  three  whole  days  like 
this!" 

On  the  fourth  morning,  therefore,  when  John 
McGuire  appeared  on  the  back  porch,  Susan  went 
into  the  Burton  living-room  with  the  avowed  deter- 
mination of  getting  Keith  out  of  the  house  and  into 
the  back  yard,  or  of  telling  him  exactly  what  she 
thought  of  him. 

She  had  all  of  her  elaborate  scheming  for  nothing, 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  247 

however,  for  at  her  first  terse  announcement  that 
John  McGuire  was  on  the  back  porch,  Keith  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  a  cheery: 

"So?  Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  out  myself." 

And  Susan  was  left  staring  at  him  with  open  eyes 
and  mouth  —  yet  not  too  dazed  to  run  to  the  open 
window  and  watch  what  happened. 

And  this  is  what  Susan  saw  —  and  heard.  Keith, 
with  his  almost  uncannily  skillful  stick  to  guide 
him,  sauntered  down  the  path  and  called  a  cheery 
greeting  to  John  McGuire  —  a  John  McGuire  who, 
in  his  eagerness  to  respond,  leaned  away  forward 
in  his  chair  with  a  sudden  flame  of  color  in  his  face. 

Keith  still  sauntered  toward  the  dividing  fence, 
pausing  only  to  feel  with  his  fingers  and  pick  the 
one  belated  rose  from  the  bush  at  the  gate.  He 
pushed  the  gate  open  then,  still  talking  cheerfully, 
and  the  next  moment  Susan  was  holding  her 
breath,  for  Keith  had  gone  straight  up  the  walk 
and  up  the  steps,  and  had  dropped  himself  into  the 
vacant  chair  beside  John  McGuire  —  and  John 
McGuire,  after  a  faint  start  as  if  to  rise,  had  fallen 
back  in  his  seat,  and  had  turned  his  face  uncer- 
tainly, fearfully,  yet  with  infinite  longing,  toward 
the  blind  youth  at  his  side. 

Susan  looked  then  at  Mrs.  McGuire.  Mrs. 
McGuire,  too,  was  plainly  holding  her  breath  sus- 
pended. On  her  face,  too,  were  uncertainty,  fear- 
fulness,  and  infinite  longing.  For  a  moment  she 
watched  the  two  boys  intently.  Then  she  rose  and 
with  cautious  steps  made  her  way  into  the  house. 


248  DAWN 

After  supper  that  night  she  came  over  and  told 
Susan  all  about  it.   Her  face  was  beaming. 

"Did  you  see  them?"  she  began  breathlessly. 
"Was  n't  it  wonderful?  A  whole  half -hour  those 
two  blessed  boys  sat  there  an'  talked;  an'  John 
laughed  twice,  actually  laughed." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan,  her  own  face  no 
less  beaming. 

"An'  to  think  how  just  last  night  I  was  scoldin' 
an'  blamin'  Keith  because  he  did  n't  come  over 
these  last  three  days.  An'  I  never  saw  at  all  what 
he  was  up  to." 

"Up  to?"  frowned  Susan. 

"Yes,  yes!  Don't  you  see?  He  did  it  on  purpose 
—  stayed  away  three  whole  days,  so  John  would 
miss  him  an'  want  him.  An'  John  did  miss  him. 
Why,  he  listened  for  him  all  the  time.  I  could  just 
see  he  was  listenin'.  An'  that's  what  made  me  so 
angry,  because  Keith  did  n't  come.  The  idea!  — 
My  boy  wantin'  somebody,  an'  that  somebody  not 
there ! 

"  But  I  know  now.  I  understand.  An' I  love  him 
for  it.  He  did  it  to  make  him  want  him.  An'  it 
worked.  Why,  if  he  'd  come  before,  every  day,  just 
as  usual,  John  would  n't  have  talked  with  him.  I 
know  he  would  n't.  But  now  —  oh,  Susan,  it  was 
wonderful,  wonderful !  I  watched  'em  from  the  win- 
dow. I  had  to  watch.  I  was  afraid  —  still.  An' 
of  course  I  heard  some  things.  An',  oh,  Susan,  it 
was  wonderful,  the  way  that  boy  understood." 

"You  mean  — Keith?" 


KEITH  TO  THE  RESCUE  249 

"Yes.  You  see,  first  John  began  to  talk  just  as 
he  talks  to  us  —  ravin'  because  he 's  so  strong  an' 
well,  an'  likely  to  live  to  be  a  hundred;  an'  of  how 
he  '11  look,  one  of  these  days,  with  his  little  tin  cup 
held  out  for  pennies  an'  his  sign,  'Please  Help  the 
Blind,'  an'  of  what  he's  got  to  look  forward  to  all 
his  life.  Oh,  Susan,  it  —  it 's  enough  to  break  the 
heart  of  a  stone,  when  he  talks  like  that." 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath. 

"Don't  you  s'pose  I  know?  Well,  I  guess  I  do! 
But  what  did  Keith  say  to  him?" 

"Nothin'.  An'  that  was  the  first  wonderful  thing. 
You  see,  we  —  we  always  talk  an'  try  to  comfort 
him  when  he  talks  like  that.  But  Keith  did  n't. 
He  just  let  him  talk,  with  nothin'  but  just  a  sympa- 
thetic word  now  an'  then.  But  it  was  n't  long  before 
I  noticed  a  wonderful  thing  was  happenin'.  Keith 
was  beginnin'  to  talk  —  not  about  that  awful  tin 
cup  an'  the  pennies  an'  the  sign,  but  about  other 
things;  first  about  the  rose  in  his  hand.  An'  pretty 
quick  John  was  talkin'  about  it,  too.  He  had  the 
rose  an'  was  smellin'  of  it.  Then  Keith  had  a  new 
knife,  an'  he  passed  that  over,  an*  pretty  quick  I 
saw  that  John  had  that  little  link  puzzle  of  Keith's, 
an'  was  havin'  a  great  time  tryin'  to  straighten  it 
out.  That 's  the  first  time  I  heard  him  laugh. 

"I  began  to  realize  then  what  Keith  was  doin\ 
He  was  fillin'  John's  mind  full  of  somethin'  else 
beside  himself,  for  just  a  minute,  an'  was  showin' 
him  that  there  were  things  he  could  call  by  name, 
like  the  rose  an'  the  knife  an'  the  puzzle,  even  if  he 


250  DAWN 

could  n't  see  'em.  Oh,  Keith  did  n't  say  anything 
like  that  to  him  —  trust  him  for  that.  But  before 
John  knew  it,  he  was  doin'  it  —  callin'  things  by 
name,  I  mean. 

"An'  Keith  is  comin'  again  to-morrow.  John 
told  me  so.  An'  if  you  could  have  seen  his  face  when 
he  said  it!  Oh,  Susan,  isn't  it  wonderful?"  she 
finished  fervently,  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"It  is,  indeed  —  wonderful,"  murmured  Susan. 
But  Susan's  eyes  were  out  the  window  on  Keith's 
face  —  Keith  and  his  father  were  coming  up  the 
walk  talking;  and  on  Keith's  face  was  a  light  Susan 
had  never  seen  there  before. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
MAZIE  AGAIN 

IT  came  to  be  the  accepted  thing  almost  at  once, 
then,  that  Keith  Burton  and  John  McGuire 
should  spend  their  mornings  together  on  the  Mc- 
Guires'  back  porch.  In  less  than  a  fortnight  young 
McGuire  even  crossed  the  yard  arm  in  arm  with 
Keith  to  the  Burtons'  back  porch  and  sat  there 
one  morning.  After  that  it  was  only  a  question  as 
to  which  porch  it  should  be.  That  it  would  be  one 
of  them  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

Sometimes  the  two  boys  talked  together.  Some- 
times they  worked  on  one  of  Keith's  raised  picture 
puzzles.  Sometimes  Keith  read  aloud  from  one  of 
his  books.  Whatever  they  did,  their  doing  it  was 
the  source  of  great  interest  to  the  entire  neigh- 
borhood. Not  only  did  Mrs.  McGuire  and  Susan 
breathlessly  watch  from  their  respective  kitchens, 
but  friends  and  neighbors  fabricated  excuses  to 
come  to  the  two  houses  in  order  to  see  for  them- 
selves; and  children  gathered  along  the  divisional 
fence  and  gazed  with  round  eyes  of  wonder.  But 
they  gazed  silently.  Everybody  gazed  silently. 
Even  the  children  seemed  to  understand  that  the 
one  unpardonable  sin  was  to  let  the  blind  boys  on 
the  porch  know  that  they  were  the  objects  of  any 
sort  of  interest. 

One  day  Mazie  Sanborn  came.    She  brought  a 


252  DAWN 

new  book  for  Mrs.  McGuire  to  read  —  an  atten- 
tion she  certainly  had  never  before  bestowed  on 
John  McGuire's  mother.  She  talked  one  half- 
minute  about  the  book  —  and  five  minutes  about 
the  beautiful  new  friendship  between  the  two  blind 
young  men.  She  insisted  on  going  into  the  kitchen 
where  she  could  see  the  two  boys  on  the  porch. 
Then,  before  Mrs.  McGuire  could  divine  her  pur- 
pose and  stop  her,  she  had  slipped  through  the  door 
and  out  on  to  the  porch  itself. 

"How  do  you  do,  gentlemen,"  she  began  blithely. 
"I  just—  " 

But  the  terrified  Mrs.  McGuire  had  her  by  the 
arm  and  was  pulling  her  back  into  the  kitchen 
before  she  could  finish  her  sentence. 

On  the  porch  the  two  boys  had  leaped  to  their 
feet,  John  McGuire,  in  particular,  looking  distressed 
and  angry. 

"Who  was  that?  Is  anybody  —  there?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"No,  dear,  not  now."  In  the  doorway  Mrs. 
McGuire  was  trying  to  nod  assurance  to  the  boys 
and  frown  banishment  to  Mazie  Sanborn  at  one 
and  the  same  moment. 

"But  there  was  —  some  one,"  insisted  her  son 
sharply. 

"Just  some  one  that  brought  a  book  to  me, 
dearie,  an'  she's  gone  now."  Frantically  Mrs.  Mc- 
Guire was  motioning  Mazie  to  make  her  asser- 
tion the  truth. 

John  McGuire  sat  down  then.  So,  too,  did  Keith. 


MAZIE  AGAIN  253 

But  all  the  rest  of  the  morning  John  was  nervously 
alert  for  all  sounds.  And  his  ears  were  frequently 
turned  toward  the  kitchen  door.  He  began  to  talk 
again,  too,  bitterly,  of  the  little  tin  cup  for  the  pen- 
nies and  the  sign  "Pity  the  Poor  Blind."  He  lost 
all  interest  in  Keith's  books  and  puzzles,  and  when 
he  was  not  railing  at  the  tragedy  of  his  fate,  he  was 
sitting  in  gloomy  silence. 

Keith  told  Susan  that  afternoon  that  if  Mrs. 
McGuire  did  not  keep  people  away  from  that  porch 
when  he  was  out  there  with  John,  he  would  not 
answer  for  the  consequences.  Susan  told  Mrs. 
McGuire,  and  Mrs.  McGuire  told  Mazie  Sanborn, 
at  the  same  time  returning  the  loaned  book  —  all 
of  which  did  not  tend  to  smooth  Miss  Mazie's  al- 
ready ruffled  feelings. 

To  Dorothy  Mazie  expressed  her  mind  on  the 
matter. 

"I  don't  care!  I'll  never  go  there  again  — 
never!"  she  declared  angrily;  "nor  speak  to  Mrs. 
McGuire,  nor  that  precious  son  of  hers,  nor  Keith 
Burton,  either.    So  there!" 

"Oh,  Mazie,  but  poor  Keith  is  n't  to  blame,"  re- 
monstrated Dorothy  earnestly,  the  color  flaming 
into  her  face. 

"He  is,  too.  He  's  just  as  bad  as  John  McGuire. 
He  jumped  up  and  looked  just  as  cross  as  John 
McGuire  did  when  I  went  out  on  to  that  porch.  And 
he  does  n't  ever  really  want  to  see  us.  You  know 
he  does  n't.  He  just  stands  us  because  he  thinks 
he's  got  to  be  polite." 


254  DAWN 

"But,  Mazie,  dear,  he's  so  sensitive,  and  he  feels 
his  affliction  keenly,  and  — " 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  right  —  stand  up  for  him!  I 
knew  you  would,"  snapped  Mazie  crossly.  "And 
everybody  knows  it,  too  —  running  after  him  the 
way  you  do." 

"Running  after  him!"  Dorothy's  face  was  scarlet 
now. 

"Yes,  running  after  him,"  reiterated  the  other 
incisively;  "and  you  always  have  —  trotting  over 
there  all  the  time  with  books  and  puzzles  and  candy 
and  flowers.  And  — " 

"For  shame,  Mazie!"  interrupted  Dorothy,  with 
hot  indignation.  "As  if  trying  to  help  that  poor 
blind  boy  to  while  away  a  few  hours  of  his  time 
were  running  after  him." 

"But  he  does  n't  want  you  to  while  away  an  hour 
or  two  of  his  time.  And  I  should  think  you'd  see 
he  did  n't.  You  could  if  you  were  n't  so  dead  in 
love  with  him,  and  — " 

"Mazie!"  gasped  Dorothy,  aghast. 

"Well,  it's  so.  Anybody  can  see  that  —  the  way 
you  color  up  every  time  his  name  is  mentioned, 
and  the  way  you  look  at  him,  with  your  heart  in 
your  eyes,  and  — ;" 

"Mazie  Sanborn!"  gasped  Dorothy  again.  Her 
face  was  not  scarlet  now.  It  had  gone  dead  white. 
She  was  on  her  feet,  horrified,  dismayed,  and  very 
angry. 

"Well,  I  don't  care.  It's  so.  Everybody  knows 
it.   And  when  a  fellow  shows  so  plainly  that  he'd 


MAZIE  AGAIN  255 

rather  be  let  alone,  how  you  can  keep  thrusting 
yourself  — " 

*  But  Dorothy  had  gone.  With  a  proud  lifting  of 
her  head,  and  a  sharp  "Nonsense,  Mazie,  you  are 
wild!  We'll  not  discuss  it  any  longer,  please,"  she 
had  turned  and  left  the  room. 

But  she  remembered.  She  must  have  remem- 
bered, for  she  did  not  go  near  the  Burton  home- 
stead for  a  week.  Neither  did  the  next  week  nor 
the  next  see  her  there.  Furthermore,  though  the 
little  stand  in  her  room  had  shown  two  new  picture 
puzzles  and  a  new  game  especially  designed  for  the 
blind,  it  displayed  them  no  longer  after  those  re- 
marks of  Mazie  Sanborn's.  Not  that  Keith  had 
them,  however.  Indeed,  no.  They  were  buried 
deep  under  a  pile  of  clothing  in  the  farther  corner 
of  Dorothy's  bottom  bureau  drawer. 

At  the  Burton  homestead  Susan  wondered  a  little 
at  her  absence.   She  even  said  to  Keith  one  day: 

"Why,  where 's  Dorothy?  We  have  n't  see  her 
for  two  weeks." 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

The  way  Keith's  lips  came  together  over  the  last 
word  caused  Susan  to  throw  a  keen  glance  into  his 
face. 

"Now,  Keith,  I  hope  you  two  have  n't  been 
quarreling  again,"  she  frowned  anxiously. 

"'Again'!  Nonsense,  Susan,  we  never  did  quar- 
rel. Don't  be  silly."  The  youth  shifted  his  position 
uneasily. 

"I'm  thinkin'  't  ain't  always  me  that's  silly," 


256  DAWN 

observed  Susan,  with  another  keen  glance.  "That 
girl  was  gettin'  so  she  come  over  jest  natural-like 
again,  every  little  while,  bringin'  in  one  thing  or 
another,  if  't  was  nothin'  more  'n  a  funny  story  to 
make  us  laugh.  An'  what  I  want  to  know  is  why 
she  stopped  right  off  short  like  this,  for  — >** 

"Nonsense!"  tossed  Keith  again,  with  a  lift  of 
his  chin.  Then,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness  that 
was  very  near  a  failure,  he  laughed:  "I  reckon  we 
don't  want  her  to  come  if  she  does  n't  want  to,  do 
we,  Susan?" 

"Humph!"  was  Susan's  only  comment  —  out- 
wardly. Inwardly  she  was  vowing  to  see  that 
young  woman  and  have  it  out  with  her,  once  for  all. 

But  Susan  did  not  see  her  nor  have  it  out  with 
her;  for,  as  it  happened,  something  occurred  that 
night  so  all-absorbing  and  exciting  that  even  the 
unexplained  absence  of  Dorothy  Parkman  became 
as  nothing  beside  it. 

With  the  abrupt  suddenness  that  sometimes 
makes  the  long-waited-f or  event  a  real  shock,  came 
the  news  of  the  death  of  the  poor  old  woman  whose 
frail  hand  had  held  the  wealth  that  Susan  had 
coveted  for  Daniel  Burton  and  his  son. 

The  two  men  left  the  next  morning  on  the  four- 
hundred-mile  journey  that  would  take  them  to  the 
town  where  Nancy  Holworthy  had  lived. 

Scarcely  had  they  left  the  house  before  Susan 
began  preparations  for  their  home-coming,  as  be- 
fitted their  new  estate.  Her  first  move  was  to  get 
out  all  the  best  silver  and  china.    She  was  busy 


MAZIE  AGAIN  257 

cleaning  it  when  Mrs.  McGuire  came  in  at  the 
kitchen  door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  began  breathlessly. 
"  Where 's  Keith?-  John 's  been  askin'  for  him  all  the 
mornin\  Is  Mr.  Burton  sick?  They  just  tele- 
phoned from  the  store  that  Mr.  Burton  had  sent 
word  that  he  would  n't  be  down  for  a  few  days.  He 
is  n't  sick,  is  he?  —  or  Keith?  I  could  n't  make  out 
quite  all  they  said;  but  there  was  somethin'  about 
Keith.   They  ain't  either  of  'em  sick,  are  they?" 

"Oh,  no,  they're  both  well  —  very  well,  thank 
you."  There  was  an  air,  half  elation,  half  superi- 
ority, about  Susan  that  was  vaguely  irritating  to 
Mrs.  McGuire. 

"Well,  you  need  n't  be  so  secret  about  it,  Susan," 
she  began  a  little  haughtily.  But  Susan  tossed  her 
head  with  a  light  laugh. 

"Secret!  I  guess  't  won't  be  no  secret  long.  Mr. 
Daniel  Burton  an'  Master  Keith  have  gone  away, 
Mis'  McGuire." 

"Away !  You  mean  —  a  —  a  vacation?  "  frowned 
Mrs.  McGuire  doubtfully. 

Susan  laughed  again,  still  with  that  irritating  air 
of  superiority. 

"Well,  hardly.  This  ain't  no  pleasure  exertion, 
Mis'  McGuire.  Still,  on  the  other  hand,  Daniel 
Burton  would  n't  be  half  humane  if  he  did  n't  get 
some  pleasure  out  of  it,  though  he  would  n't  so 
demean  himself  as  to  show  it,  of  course.  Mis' 
Nancy  Holworthy  is  dead,  Mis'  McGuire.  We  had 
the  signification  last  night." 


258  DAWN 

"Not  —  you  don't  mean  the  Nancy  Holworthy 
—  the  one  that's  got  the  money!"  The  excited 
interest  in  Mrs.  McGuire's  face  and  voice  was  as 
great  as  even  Susan  herself  could  have  desired. 

Susan  obviously  swelled  with  the  glory  of  the 
occasion,  though  she  still  spoke  with  cold  loftiness. 

"The  one  and  the  same,  Mis'  McGuire." 

"My  stars  an'  stockin's,  you  don't  say!  An' 
they've  gone  to  the  funeral?" 

"They  have." 

"An'  they'll  get  the  money  now,  I  s'pose." 

"They  will." 

"But  are  you  sure?  You  know  sometimes  when 
folks  expect  the  money  they  don't  get  it.  It 's  been 
willed  away  to  some  one  else." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  't  won't  be  here,"  spoke 
Susan  with  decision.  "Mis'  Holworthy  could  n't 
if  she'd  wanted  to.  It's  all  foreordained  an'  fixed 
beforehand.  Daniel  Burton  was  to  get  jest  the 
annual  while  she  lived,  an'  then  the  whole  in  a 
plump  sum  when  she  died.  Well,  she's  dead,  an' 
now  he  gets  it.  An'  a  right  tidy  little  sum  it  is, 
too." 

"Was  she  awful  rich,  Susan?" 

"More'n  a  hundred  thousand.  A  hundred  an' 
fifty,  I  've  heard  say." 

"My  gracious  me!  An'  to  think  of  Daniel  Bur- 
ton havin'  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars! 
What  in  the  world  will  he  do  with  it?" 

Susan's  chin  came  up  superbly. 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  he'll  do,  Mis' 


MAZIE  AGAIN  259 

McGuire.  He'll  stop  peddlin'  peas  an'  beans  over 
that  counter  down  there,  an'  retire  to  a  life  of  ease 
an'  laxity  with  his  paint-brushes,  as  he  ought  to. 
An'  he'll  have  somethin'  fit  to  eat  an'  wear,  an' 
Keith  will,  too.  An'  furthermore  an'  likewise  you  '11 
see  some  difference  in  this  place,  or  my  name  ain't 
Susan  Betts.  Them  two  men  have  got  an  awful 
lot  to  live  up  to,  an'  I  mean  they  shall  understand 
it  right  away." 

"Which  explains  this  array  of  china  an'  silver, 
I  take  it,"  observed  Mrs.  McGuire  dryly. 

"Eh?  What?"  frowned  Susan  doubtfully;  then 
her  face  cleared.  "Yes,  that's  jest  it.  They've  got 
to  have  things  now  fitted  up  to  their  new  estation. 
We  shall  get  more,  too.  We  need  some  new  tea- 
spoons an'  forks.  An'  I  want  'em  to  get  some  of 
them  bunion  spoons." 

"Bunion  spoons!" 

"Yes — when  you  eat  soup  out  of  them  two- 
handled  cups,  you  know.  Or  maybe  you  don't 
know,"  she  corrected  herself,  at  the  odd  expression 
that  had  come  to  Mrs.  McGuire's  face.  "But  I 
do.  Mrs.  Professor  Hinkley  used  to  have  'em. 
They're  awful  pretty  an'  stylish,  too.  And  we've 
got  to  have  a  lot  of  other  things  —  new  china,  an' 
some  cut-glass,  an'  — " 

"Well,  it  strikes  me,"  interrupted  Mrs.  McGuire 
severely,  "that  Daniel  Burton  had  better  be  put- 
tin'  his  money  into  Liberty  Bonds  an'  Red  Cross 
work,  instead  of  silver  spoons  an'  cut-glass,  in  these 
war-times.   An'  — " 


260  DAWN 

"My  Ian',  Mis'  McGuire!"  With  the  sudden  ex- 
clamation Susan  had  dropped  the  spoon  she  was 
polishing.  Her  eyes,  wild  and  incredulous,  were 
staring  straight  into  the  startled  eyes  of  the  woman 
opposite.  "Do  you  know?  Since  that  yeller  tele- 
gram came  last  night  tellin'  us  Nancy  Holworthy 
was  dead,  I  hain't  even  once  thought  of  — the 
war." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  would  think  of  it  —  if  you 
had  my  John  right  before  you  all  the  time."  With 
a  bitter  sigh  Mrs.  McGuire  had  relaxed  in  her 
chair.    "You  would  n't  need  anything  else." 

"Humph!  I  don't  need  anything  else  with  Dan- 
iel Burton  'round." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I  mean  that  that  man  don't  do  nothin' 
but  read  war  an'  talk  war  every  minute  he 's  in  the 
house.  An'  what  with  them  wheatless  days  an' 
meatless  days,  he  fairly  eats  war.  You  heard  my 
poem  on  them  meatless,  wheatless  days,  did  n't 

you?" 

Mrs.  McGuire  shook  her  head  listlessly.  Her 
somber  eyes  were  on  the  lonely  figure  of  her  son  on 
the  porch  across  the  two  back  yards. 

"You  didn't?  Well,  I'll  say  it  to  you,  then. 
'T  ain't  much;  still,  it's  kind  of  good,  in  a  way. 
I  hain't  written  hardly  anything  lately;  but  I  did 
write  this: 

We've  a  wheatless  day, 
An'  a  meatless  day, 
An'  a  tasteless,  wasteless, 
sweetless  day. 


MAZIE  AGAIN  261 

But  with  never  a  pause, 
For  the  good  of  the  cause, 
We'd  even  consent  to  an 
eatless  day. 

"An'  we  would,  too,  of  course. 

"An*  as  far  as  that's  concerned,  there's  a  good 
many  other  kinds  of  'less  days  that  I'm  thinkin' 
would  n't  hurt  none  of  us.  How  about  a  fretless 
day  an'  a  worryless  day?  Would  n't  they  be  great? 
An'  only  think  what  a  talkless  day'd  mean  in  some 
households  I  could  mention.  Oh,  of  course,  present 
comp'ny  always  accentuated,"  she  hastened  to  add 
with  a  sly  chuckle,  as  Mrs.  McGuire  stirred  into 
sudden  resentment. 

"Humph!"  subsided  Mrs.  McGuire,  still  a  little 
resentfully. 

"An'  I'm  free  to  confess  that  there's  some  kinds 
of  'less  days  that  we've  already  got  plenty  of," 
went  on  Susan,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful  pause. 
"There  is  folks  that  take  quite  enough  workless 
days,  an'  laughless  days,  an'  pityless  days,  an' 
thankless  days.  My  Ian',  there  ain't  no  end  to 
them  kind,  as  any  one  can  see.  An'  there  was  them 
heatless  days  last  winter  —  I  guess  no  one  was 
hankerin'  for  more  of  them.  Oh,  'course  I  under- 
stand that  that  was  just  preservation  of  coal,  an' 
that  't  was  necessary,  an'  all  that.  An'  that's 
another  thing,  too  —  this  preservation  business. 
I'd  like  to  add  a  few  things  to  that,  an'  make  'em 
preserve  in  fault-findin',  an'  crossness,  an'  back- 
bitin',  an'  gossip,  as  well  as  in  coal,  an'  sugar,  an' 
wheat,  an'  beef." 


m%  DAWN 

Mrs.  McGuire  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"My  goodness,  Susan  Betts,  if  you  ain't  the 
limit,  an'  no  mistake !  I  s'pose  you  mean  conserva- 
tion." 

"Heh?  What's  that?  Well,  conservation,  then. 
What's  the  difference,  anyway?"  she  scoffed  a  bit 
testily.  Then,  abruptly,  her  face  changed.  "But, 
there!  this  ain't  settlin'  what  I'm  going  to  do  with 
Daniel  Burton,"  she  finished  with  a  profound  sigh. 

"Do  with  him?"  puzzled  Mrs.  McGuire. 

"Yes."  Susan  picked  up  the  silver  spoon  and 
began  indifferently  to  polish  it.  "'T  ain't  no  use 
for  me  to  be  doin'  all  this.  Daniel  Burton  won't 
know  whether  he 's  eatin'  with  a  silver  spoon  or  one 
made  of  pewter.  No  more  will  he  retire  to  a  life 
of  ease  an'  laxity  with  his  paint-brushes  —  unless 
they  declarate  peace  to-morrow  mornin'." 

"You  don't  mean  —  he'll  stay  in  the  store?" 

Susan  made  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Goodness  only  knows  what  he'll  do  —  I  don't. 
I  know  what  he  does  now.  He 's  as  uneasy  as  a  fish 
out  o'  water,  an'  he  roams  the  house  from  one  end 
to  the  other  every  night,  after  he  reads  the  paper. 
He's  got  one  of  them  war  maps  on  his  wall,  an' 
he  keeps  changin'  the  pins  an'  flags,  an'  I  hear  him 
mutterin'  under  his  breath.  You  see,  he  has  to  keep 
it  from  Keith  all  he  can,  for  Keith  hisself  feels  so 
bad  'cause  he  can't  be  up  an'  doin';  an'  if  he 
thought  he  was  keepin'  his  father  back  from  helpin', 
I  don't  know  what  the  poor  boy  would  do.  But 
I  think  if  't  wa'n't  for  Keith,  Daniel  Burton  would 


MAZIE  AGAIN  263 

try  to  enlist  an'  go  over.  Oh,  of  course,  he's  be- 
yond the  malicious  age,  so  far  as  bein'  drafted  is 
concerned,  an'  you  would  n't  naturally  think  such 
a  mild-tempered-lookin'  man  would  go  in  much  for 
killin'.  But  this  war's  stirred  him  up  somethin' 
awful." 

"Well,  who  would  n't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  know  that;  an'  I  ain't  sayin'  as  how  it 
should  n't.  But  that  don't  make  it  no  easier  for 
Daniel  Burton  to  keep  his  feelin's  hid  from  his  son, 
particularly  when  it's  that  son  that's  made  him 
have  the  feelin's,  partly.  There  ain't  no  doubt  but 
that  one  of  the  things  that 's  made  Daniel  Burton 
so  fidgety  an'  uneasy,  an'  ready  to  jest  fling  hisself 
into  that  ravin'  conflict  over  there  is  his  unhappi- 
ness  an'  disappointment  over  Keith.  He  had  such 
big  plans  for  that  boy!" 

"Yes,  I  know.  We  all  have  big  plans  for  —  our 
boys."    Mrs.  McGuire  choked  and  turned  away. 

"An'  girls,  too,  for  that  matter,"  hurried  on 
Susan,  with  a  quick  glance  into  the  other's  face. 
"An'  speakin'  of  girls,  did  you  see  Hattie  Turner 
on  the  street  last  night?" 

Dumbly  Mrs.  McGuire  answered  with  a  shake  of 
her  head.  Her  eyes  had  gone  back  to  her  son's  face 
across  the  yard. 

"Well,  I  did.  Her  Charlie's  at  Camp  Devens, 
you  know.  They  say  he 's  invited  to  more  places 
every  Sunday  than  he  can  possibly  accept;  an' 
that  he's  petted  an'  praised  an'  made  of  every- 
where he  goes,  an'  tended  right  up  to  so's  he  won't 


264  DAWN 

get  lonesome,  or  attend  unquestionable  entertain- 
ments. Well,  that's  all  right  an'  good,  of  course, 
an'  as  it  should  be.  But  I  wish  somebody 'd  take 
up  Charlie  Turner's  wife  an'  invite  her  to  Sunday 
dinners  an'  take  her  to  ride,  an'  see  that  she  did  n't 
attend  unquestionable  entertainments." 

"Why,  Susan  Betts,  what  an  idea!"  protested 
Mrs.  McGuire,  suddenly  sitting  erect  in  her  chair. 
"Hattie  Turner  is  n't  fightin'  for  her  country." 

"No,  but  her  husband  is,"  retorted  Susan  crisply. 
"An'  she's  fightin'  for  her  honor  an'  her  future 
peace  an'  happiness,  an'  she's  doin'  it  all  alone. 
She's  pretty  as  a  picture,  an'  nothin'  but  a  child 
when  he  married  her  four  months  ago,  an'  we've 
took  away  her  natural  pervider  an'  entertainer,  an' 
left  her  nothin'  but  her  freedom  for  a  ballast  wheel. 
An'  I  say  I  wish  some  of  the  patriotic  people  who 
are  jest  showerin'  every  Charlie  Turner  with  atten- 
tions would  please  sprinkle  jest  a  few  on  Charlie's 
wife,  to  help  keep  her  straight  an'  sweet  an'  honest 
for  Charlie  when  he  comes  back." 

"Hm-m,  maybe,"  murmured  Mrs.  McGuire, 
rising  wearily  to  her  feet;  "but  there  ain't  many 
that  thinks  of  that." 

"There'll  be  more  think  of  it  by  an'  by  —  when 
it's  too  late,"  observed  Susan  succinctly,  as  she, 
too,  rose  from  her  chair. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  JOHN 

IN  due  course  Daniel  Burton  and  his  son  Keith 
returned  from  the  funeral  of  their  kinswoman, 
Mrs.  Nancy  Holworthy. 

The  town,  aware  now  of  the  stupendous  change 
that  had  come  to  the  fortunes  of  the  Burton  family, 
stared,  gossiped,  shook  wise  heads  of  prophecy, 
then  passed  on  to  the  next  sensation  —  which  hap- 
pened to  be  the  return  of  four  soldiers  from  across 
the  seas;  three  crippled,  one  blinded. 

At  the  Burton  homestead  the  changes  did  not 
seem  so  stupendous,  after  all.  True,  Daniel  Burton 
had  abandoned  the  peddling  of  peas  and  beans 
across  the  counter,  and  had,  at  the  earnest  solicita- 
tion of  his  son,  got  out  his  easel  and  placed  a  fresh 
canvas  upon  it;  but  he  obviously  worked  half- 
heartedly, and  he  still  roamed  the  house  after  read- 
ing the  evening  paper,  and  spent  even  more  time 
before  the  great  war  map  on  his  studio  wall. 

True,  also,  disgruntled  tradesmen  no  longer  rang 
peremptory  peals  on  the  doorbell,  and  the  post- 
man's load  of  bills  on  the  first  of  the  month  was 
perceptibly  decreased.  The  dinner-table,  too,  bore 
evidence  that  a  scanty  purse  no  longer  controlled 
the  larder,  but  no  new  china  or  cut-glass  graced 
the  board,  and  Susan's  longed-for  bouillon  spoons 
had  never  materialized.  Locks  and  doors  and  sag- 


266  DAWN 

ging  blinds  had  received  prompt  attention,  and 
already  the  house  was  being  prepared  for  a  new  coat 
of  paint;  but  no  startling  alterations  or  improve- 
ments were  promised  by  the  evidence,  and  Keith 
was  still  to  be  seen  almost  daily  on  the  McGuire 
back  porch,  as  before,  or  on  his  own,  with  John 
McGuire. 

It  is  no  wonder,  surely,  that  very  soon  the  town 
ceased  to  stare  and  gossip,  or  even  to  shake  wise 
heads  of  prophecy. 

Nancy  Holworthy's  death  was  two  months  in  the 
past  when  one  day  Keith  came  home  from  John 
McGuire's  back  porch  in  very  evident  excitement 
and  agitation. 

"Why,  Keith,  what's  the  matter?  What  is  the 
matter?"  demanded  Susan  concernedly. 

"Nothing.  That  is,  I  —  I  did  not  know  I  acted 
as  if  anything  was  the  matter,"  stammered  the 
youth. 

"Well,  you  do.   Now,  tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  Susan.  Nothing  you  can 
help."  Keith  was  pacing  back  and  forth  and  up 
and  down  the  living-room,  not  even  using  his  cane 
to  define  the  familiar  limits  of  his  pathway.  Sud- 
denly he  turned  and  stopped  short,  his  whole  body 
quivering  with  emotion.    "Susan,  I  can't!  I  can't 

—  stand  it,"  he  moaned. 

"I  know,  Keith.   But,  what  is  it  —  now?" 
"John  McGuire.  He's  been  telling  me  how  it  is 

—  over  there.  Why,  Susan,  I  could  see  it  —  see  it, 
I  tell  you,  and,  oh,  I  did  so  want  to  be  there  to  help. 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  JOHN  267 

He  told  me  how  they  held  it  —  the  little  clump 
of  trees  that  meant  so  much  to  us,  and  how  one  by 
one  they  fell  —  those  brave  fellows  with  him.  I 
could  see  it.  I  could  hear  it.  I  could  hear  the  horrid 
din  of  the  guns  and  shells,  and  the  crash  of  falling 
trees  about  us;  and  the  shouts  and  groans  of  the 
men  at  our  side.  And  they  needed  men  —  more 
men  —  to  take  the  place  of  those  that  had  fallen. 
Even  one  man  counted  there  —  counted  for,  oh,  so 
much !  —  for  at  the  last  there  was  just  one  man  left 
—  John  McGuire.  And  to  hear  him  tell  it  —  it  was 
wonderful,  wonderful!" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan.  "It  was  like 
his  letters  —  you  could  see  things.  He  made  you 
see  'em.  An'  that's  what  he  always  did  —  made 
you  see  things  —  even  when  he  was  a  little  boy. 
His  mother  told  me.  He  wanted  to  write,  you  know. 
He  was  goin'  to  be  a  writer,  before  —  this  hap- 
pened. An'  now  — -"  The  sentence  trailed  off  into 
the  silence  unfinished. 

"And  to  think  of  all  that  to-day  being  wasted  on 
a  blind  baby  tied  to  a  picture  puzzle,"  moaned 
Keith,  resuming  his  nervous  pacing  of  the  room. 
"If  only  a  man — -a  real  man  could  have  heard 
him  —  one  that  could  go  and  do  a  man's  work  — •! 
Why,  Susan,  that  story,  as  he  told  it,  would  make 
a  stone  fight.  I  never  heard  anything  like  it.  I 
never  supposed  there  could  be  anything  like  that 
battle.  He  never  talked  like  this,  until  to-day.  Oh, 
he 's  told  me  a  little,  from  time  to  time.  But  to-day, 
to-day,  he  just  poured  out  his  heart  to  me  —  me  ! 


268  DAWN 

— ■  and  there  are  so  many  who  need  just  that  mes- 
sage to  stir  them  from  their  smug  complacency  — 
men  who  could  fight,  and  win:  men  who  would  fight, 
and  win,  if  only  they  could  see  and  hear  and  know, 
as  I  saw  and  heard  and  knew  this  afternoon.  And 
there  it  was,  wasted,  wasted,  worse  than  wasted  on 


me 


Chokingly  Keith  turned  away,  but  with  a  sudden 
cry  Susan  caught  his  arm. 

"No,  no,  Keith,  it  was  n't  wasted  —  you  must  n't 
let  it  be  wasted,"  she  panted.  "Listen!  You  want 
others  to  hear  it  —  what  you  heard  —  don't  you?  " 

"Why,  y-yes,  Susan;  but  — •" 

"Then  make  'em  hear  it,"  she  interrupted.  "You 
can  —  you  can!" 

"How?" 

"Make  him  write  it  down,  jest  as  he  talks.  He 
can  —  he  wants  to.  He 's  always  wanted  to.  Then 
publish  it  in  a  book,  so  everybody  can  see  it  and 
hear  it,  as  you  did." 

"Oh,  Susan,  if  we  only  could!"  A  dawning  hope 
had  come  into  Keith  Burton's  face,  but  almost  at 
once  it  faded  into  gray  disappointment.  "We 
could  n't  do  it,  though,  Susan.  He  could  n't  do  it. 
You  know  he  can't  write  at  all.  He's  only  begun 
to  practice  a  little  bit.  He'd  never  get  it  down,  with 
the  fire  and  the  vim  in  it,  learning  to  write  as  he  'd 
have  to.  What  do  you  suppose  Lincoln's  Gettysburg 
Speech  would  have  been  if  he  'd  had  to  stop  to  learn 
how  to  spell  and  to  write  each  word  before  he  could 
put  it  down?" 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  JOHN  269 

"I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan.  "It's  that 
way  with  me  in  my  poetry.  I  jest  have  to  get  right 
ahead  while  the  fuse  burns,  an'  spell  'em  somehow, 
anyhow,  so's  to  get  'em  down  while  I'm  in  the  fit 
of  it.  He  could  n't  do  it.  I  can  see  that  now.  But, 
Keith,  could  n't  you  do  it?  —  take  it  down,  I  mean, 
as  he  talked,  like  a  stylographer?  " 

Keith  shook  his  head. 

"I  wish  I  could.  But  I  couldn't,  I  know  I 
could  n't.  I  could  n't  begin  to  do  it  fast  enough  to 
keep  up  with  him,  and  't  would  spoil  it  all  to  have 
to  ask  him  to  slow  down.  When  a  man's  got  a 
couple  of  Huns  coming  straight  for  him,  and  he 
knows  he's  got  to  get  'em  both  at  once,  you  can't 
very  well  sing  out :  *  Here,  wait  —  wait  a  minute  till 
I  get  that  last  sentence  down!'" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  Susan  again.  She 
paused,  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  turned  her  eyes  out 
the  window.  Up  the  walk  was  coming  Daniel 
Burton.  His  step  was  slow,  his  head  was  bowed. 
He  looked  like  anything  but  the  happy  possessor 
of  new  wealth.  Susan  frowned  as  she  watched  him. 

"I  wish  your  father — "  she  began.  Suddenly 
she  stopped.  A  new  light  had  leaped  to  her  eyes. 
"Keith,  Keith,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "I  have  it! 
Your  father  —  he  could  do  it  —  I  know  he  could!" 

"Do  what?" 

"Take  down  John  McGuire's  story.  Couldn't 
he  do  it?" 

"Why,  y-yes,  he  could,  I  think,"  hesitated  Keith 
doubtfully.    "He  does  n't  know  shorthand,  but  he 


270  DAWN 

—  he's  got  eyes"  (Keith's  voice  broke  a  little) 
"  and  he  could  see  what  he  was  doing,  and  he  could 
take  down  enough  of  it  so  he  could  patch  it  up 
afterwards,  I'm  sure.  But  Susan,  John  McGuire 
would  n't  tell  it  to  him.  Don't  you  see?  He  won't 
even  see  anybody  but  me,  and  he  did  n't  talk  like 
this  even  to  me  until  to-day.  How's  dad  going  to 
hear  it  to  write  it  down?   Tell  me  that?" 

"But  he  could  overhear  it,  Keith.  No,  no,  don't 
look  like  that,"  she  protested  hurriedly,  as  Keith 
began  to  frown.  "Jest  listen  a  minute.  It  would  be 
jest  as  easy.  He  could  be  over  on  the  grass  right 
close,  where  he  could  hear  every  word;  an'  you 
could  get  John  to  talkin',  an'  as  soon  as  he  got  really 
started  on  a  story  your  father  could  begin  to  write, 
an'  John  would  n't  know  a  thing  about  it;  an'  — " 

"Yes,  you're  quite  right  —  John  would  n't  know 
a  thing  about  it,"  broke  in  Keith,  with  a  passion  so 
sudden  and  bitter  that  Susan  fell  back  in  dismay. 

"Why,  Keith!"  she  exclaimed,  her  startled  eyes 
on  his  quivering  face. 

"I  wonder  if  you  think  I'd  do  it!"  he  demanded. 
"I  wonder  if  you  really  think  I'd  cheat  that  poor 
fellow  into  talking  to  me  just  because  he  had  n't 
eyes  to  see  that  I  was  n't  the  only  one  in  his  au- 
dience!" 

"But,  Keith,  he  wouldn't  mind;  he  wouldn't 
mind  a  bit,"  urged  Susan, "  if  he  did  n't  know  an'  —  " 

"Oh,  no,  he  would  n't  mind  being  cheated  and 
deceived  and  made  a  fool  of,  just  because  he 
couldn't  see!" 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  JOHN  271 

"No,  he  would  n't  mind,"  persisted  Susan 
stoutly.  "It  wouldn't  be  a  mean  listenin',  nor 
sneak  listenin'.  It  would  n't  be  listenin'  to  things 
he  did  n't  want  us  to  hear.  He  'd  be  glad,  after 
it  was  all  done,  an'  — " 

"Would  he!"  choked  Keith,  still  more  bitterly. 
"Maybe  you  think  /  was  glad  after  it  was  all  done, 
and  I  found  I  'd  been  fooled  and  cheated  into  think- 
ing the  girl  that  was  reading  and  talking  to  me  and 
playing  games  with  me  was  a  girl  I  had  never 
known  before  —  a  girl  who  was  what  she  pretended 
to  be,  a  new  friend  doing  it  all  because  she  wanted 
to,  because  she  liked  to." 

"But,  Keith,  I'm  sure  that  Dorothy  liked  — " 

"There,  there,  Susan,"  interposed  Keith,  with 
quickly  uplifted  hand.  "  We  '11  not  discuss  it,  please, 
Yes,  I  know,  I  began  the  subject  myself,  and  it  was 
my  fault;  but  when  I  heard  you  say  John  McGuire 
would  be  glad  when  he  found  out  how  we  'd  lied  to 
his  poor  blind  eyes,  I  —  I  just  could  n't  hold  it  in. 
I  had  to  say  something.  But  never  mind  that  now, 
Susan;  only  you'll  —  you'll  have  to  understand  I 
mean  what  I  say.  There 's  no  letting  dad  copy  that 
story  on  the  sly." 

"But  there's  a  way,  there  must  be  a  way,"  ar- 
gued Susan  feverishly.  "Only  think  what  it  would 
mean  to  that  boy  if  we  could  get  him  started  to 
writin'  books  —  what  he 's  wanted  to  do  all  his  life. 
Oh,  Keith,  why,  he'd  even  forget  his  eyes  then." 

"It  would  —  help  some."  Keith  drew  in  his 
breath  and  held  it  a  moment  suspended.     "And 


272  DAWN 

he'd  even  be  helping  us  to  win  out  —  over 
there;  for  if  we  could  get  that  story  of  his  on  paper 
as  he  told  it  to  me,  the  fellow  that  reads  it  would  n't 
need  any  recruiting  station  to  send  him  over  there. 
If  there  was  only  a  way  that  father  could  — " 

"There  is,  an'  we'll  find  it,"  interposed  Susan 
eagerly.  "I  know  we  will.  An'  Keith,  it's  goin'  to 
be  'most  as  good  for  him  as  it  is  for  John  McGuire. 
He's  nervous  as  a  witch  since  he  quit  his  job." 

"I  know."  A  swift  cloud  crossed  the  boy's  face. 
"But  't  was  n't  giving  up  his  job  that's  made  him 
nervous,  Susan,  as  you  and  I  both  know  very  well. 
However,  we'll  see.  And  you  may  be  sure  if  there 
is  a  way  I'll  find  it,  Susan,"  he  finished  a  bit  wea- 
rily, as  he  turned  to  go  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
THE  WAY 

KEITH  was  still  looking  for  "the  way,"  when 
October  came,  bringing  crisp  days  and  chilly 
winds.  When  not  too  cold,  the  boys  still  sat  out  of 
doors.  When  it  was  too  cold,  John  McGuire  did 
not  appear  at  all  on  his  back  porch,  and  Keith  did 
not  have  the  courage  to  make  a  bold  advance  to  the 
McGuire  door  and  ask  admittance.  There  came  a 
day,  however,  when  a  cold  east  wind  came  up  after 
they  were  well  established  in  their  porch  chairs 
for  the  morning.  They  were  on  the  Burton  porch 
this  time,  and  Keith  suddenly  determined  to  take 
the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"Brrr!  but  it's  cold  this  morning,"  he  shivered 
blithely.  "What  say  you?  Let's  go  in.  Come  on." 
And  without  waiting  for  acquiescence,  he  caught 
John  McGuire's  arm  in  his  own  and  half  pulled  him 
to  his  feet.  Before  John  McGuire  knew  then  quite 
what  was  happening,  he  found  himself  in  the  house. 

"No,  no!  — that  is,  I  —  I  think  I'd  better  be 
going  home,"  he  stammered. 

But  Keith  Burton  did  not  seem  even  to  hear. 

"Say,  just  try  your  hand  at  this  puzzle,"  he  was 
saying  gayly.  "I  gave  it  up,  and  I'll  bet  you'll 
have  to,"  he  finished,  thrusting  a  pasteboard  box 
into  his  visitor's  hands  and  nicely  adjudging  the 
distance  a  small  table  must  be  pushed  in  order  to 


274  DAWN 

bring  it  conveniently  in  front  of  John  McGuire's 
chair. 

The  quick  tightening  of  John  McGuire's  lips  and 
the  proud  lifting  of  his  chin  told  that  Keith's  chal- 
lenge had  been  accepted  even  before  the  laconic 
answer  came. 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?  Well,  we'll  see  whether 
I'll  have  to  give  it  up  or  not." 

John  McGuire  loved  picture  puzzles,  as  Keith 
Burton  well  knew. 

It  was  easy  after  that.  Keith  took  it  so  unhesi- 
tatingly for  granted  that  they  were  to  go  indoors 
when  it  was  cold  that  John  McGuire  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  object;  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  two 
boys  were  going  back  and  forth  between  the  two 
houses  with  almost  as  much  ease  as  if  their  feet 
had  been  guided  by  the  eye  instead  of  by  the  tap  of 
a  slender  stick. 

John  McGuire  was  learning  a  great  deal  from 
Keith  these  days,  though  it  is  doubtful  if  he  real- 
ized it.  It  is  doubtful,  also,  if  he  realized  how  con- 
stantly he  was  being  made  to  talk  of  the  war  and  of 
his  experience  in  it.  But  Keith  realized  it.  Keith 
was  not  looking  for  "the  way"  now.  He  believed 
he  had  found  it;  and  there  came  a  day  when  he 
deemed  the  time  had  come  to  try  to  carry  it  out. 

They  were  in  his  own  home  living-room.  It  had 
been  a  wonderful  story  that  John  McGuire  had 
told  that  day  of  a  daring  excursion  into  No  Man's 
Land,  and  what  came  of  it.  Upstairs  in  the  studio 
Daniel  Burton  was  sitting  alone,  as  Keith  knew. 


THE  WAY  275 

Keith  drew  a  long  breath  and  made  the  plunge. 
Springing  to  his  feet  he  turned  toward  the  door  that 
led  into  the  hall. 

"  McGuire,  that  was  a  bully  story — a  corking 
good  story.  I  want  dad  to  hear  it.  Wait,  I  '11  get 
him."  And  he  was  out  of  the  room  with  the  door 
fast  closed  behind  him  before  John  McGuire  could 
so  much  as  draw  a  breath. 

Upstairs,  Daniel  Burton,  already  in  the  secret, 
heard  Keith's  eager  summons  and  came  at  once. 
For  some  days  he  had  been  expecting  just  such  an 
urgent  call  from  Keith's  lips.  He  knew  too  much  to 
delay.  He  was  down  the  stairs  and  at  Keith's  side 
in  an  incredibly  short  time.  Then  together  they 
pushed  open  the  door  and  entered  the  living- 
room. 

John  McGuire  was  on  his  feet.  Very  plainly  he 
was  intending  to  go  home,  and  at  once.  But  Daniel 
Burton  paid  no  attention  to  that.  He  came  straight 
toward  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"I  call  this  mighty  good  of  you,  McGuire,"  he 
said.  "My  boy  here  has  been  raving  about  your 
stories  of  the  war  until  I  'm  fairly  green  with  envy. 
Now  I  'm  to  hear  a  bit  of  them  myself,  he  says.  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  some  of  your  experiences, 
my  lad.  You  know  a  chance  like  this  is  a  real  god- 
send to  us  poor  stay-at-homes.  Now  fire  away! 
I'm  ready." 

But  John  McGuire  was  not  ready.  True,  he  sat 
down  —  but  not  until  after  a  confused  "No,  no,  I 
must  go  home  —  that  is,  really,  they  're  not  worth 


276  DAWN 

repeating  —  those  stories."  And  he  would  not  talk 
at  all  —  at  first. 

Daniel  Burton  talked,  however.  He  talked  of 
wars  in  general  and  of  the  Civil  War  in  particular; 
and  he  told  the  stories  of  Antietam  and  Gettysburg 
as  they  had  been  told  to  him  by  his  father.  Then 
from  Gettysburg  he  jumped  to  Flanders,  and  talked 
of  aeroplanes,  and  gas-masks,  and  tanks,  and 
trenches,  and  dugouts. 

Little  by  little  then  John  McGuire  began  to  talk 
—  sometimes  a  whole  sentence,  sometimes  only  a 
word  or  two.  But  there  was  no  fire,  no  enthusiasm, 
no  impetuous  rush  of  words  that  brought  the  very 
din  of  battle  to  their  ears.  And  not  once  did  Daniel 
Burton  thrust  his  fingers  into  his  pocket  for  his 
pencil  and  notebook.  Yet,  when  it  was  all  over,  and 
John  McGuire  had  gone  home,  Keith  dropped  into 
his  chair  with  a  happy  sigh. 

"It  wasn't  much,  dad,  I  know,"  he  admitted, 
"but  it  was  something.  It  was  a  beginning,  and  a 
beginning  is  something — with  John  McGuire." 

And  it  was  something;  for  the  next  time  Daniel 
Burton  entered  the  room,  John  McGuire  did  not 
even  start  from  his  chair.  He  gave  a  faint  smile  of 
welcome,  too,  and  he  talked  sooner,  and  talked 
more  —  though  there  was  little  of  war  talk;  and 
for  the  second  time  Daniel  Burton  did  not  reach 
for  his  pencil. 

But  the  third  time  he  did.  A  question,  a  com- 
ment, a  chance  word  —  neither  Keith  nor  his 
father  could  have  told  afterward  what  started  it. 


THE  WAY  277 

They  knew  only  that  a  sudden  light  as  of  a  flame 
leaped  into  John  McGuire's  face  —  and  he  was 
back  in  the  trenches  of  France  and  carrying  them 
with  him. 

At  the  second  sentence  Daniel  Burton's  fingers 
were  in  his  pocket,  and  at  the  third  his  pencil  was 
racing  over  the  paper  at  breakneck  speed.  There 
was  no  pause  then,  no  time  for  thought,  no  time 
for  careful  forming  of  words  and  letters.  There 
was  only  the  breakneck  race  between  a  bit  of  lead 
and  an  impassioned  tongue;  and  when  it  was  all 
over,  there  were  only  a  well-nigh  hopeless-looking 
mass  of  hieroglyphics  in  Daniel  Burton's  notebook 

—  and  the  sweat  of  spent  excitement  on  the  brows 
of  two  youths  and  a  man. 

"Gee!  we  got  it  that  time!"  breathed  Keith, 
after  John  McGuire  had  gone  home. 

"Yes;  only  I  was  wondering  if  I  had  really  — 
got  it,"  murmured  Daniel  Burton,  eyeing  a  bit  rue- 
fully the  confused  mass  of  words  and  letters  in  his 
notebook.   "Still,  I  reckon  I  can  dig  it  out  all  right 

—  if  I  do  it  right  away,"  he  finished  confidently. 
And  he  did  dig  it  out  before  he  slept  that  night. 

If  Daniel  Burton  and  his  son  Keith  thought  the 
thing  was  done,  and  it  was  going  to  be  easy  sailing 
thereafter,  they  found  themselves  greatly  mistaken. 
John  McGuire  scarcely  said  five  sentences  about 
the  war  the  next  time  they  were  together,  though 
Daniel  Burton  had  his  pencil  poised  expectantly 
from  the  start.  He  said  only  a  little  more  the  next 
time,  and  the  next;  and  Daniel  Burton  pocketed 


278  DAWN 

his  pencil  in  despair.  Then  came  a  day  when  a 
chance  word  about  a  new  air  raid  reported  in  the 
morning  paper  acted  like  a  match  to  gunpowder, 
and  sent  John  McGuire  off  into  a  rapid-fire  story 
that  whipped  Daniel  Burton's  pencil  from  his 
pocket  and  set  it  to  racing  again  at  breakneck  speed 
to  keep  up  with  him. 

It  was  easier  after  that.  Still,  every  day  it  was 
like  a  game  of  hide-and-seek,  with  Daniel  Bur- 
ton and  his  pencil  ever  in  pursuit,  and  with  now 
and  then  a  casual  comment  or  a  tactful  ques- 
tion to  lure  the  hiding  story  out  into  the  open. 
Little  by  little,  as  the  frank  comradeship  of  Daniel 
Burton  won  its  way,  John  McGuire  was  led  to  talk 
more  and  more  freely;  and  by  Christmas  the  eager 
scribe  was  in  possession  of  a  very  complete  record 
of  John  McGuire's  war  experiences,  dating  even 
from  the  early  days  of  his  enlistment. 

Day  by  day,  as  he  had  taken  down  the  rough 
notes,  Daniel  Burton  had  followed  it  up  with  a 
careful  untangling  and  copying  before  he  had  had 
a  chance  to  forget,  or  to  lose  the  wonderful  glow 
born  of  the  impassioned  telling.  Then,  from  time 
to  time  he  had  sorted  the  notes  and  arranged  them 
in  proper  sequence,  until  now  he  had  a  complete 
story,  logical  and  well-rounded. 

It  was  on  Christmas  Day  that  he  read  the  manu- 
script to  Keith.  At  its  conclusion  Keith  drew  a 
long,  tremulous  breath. 

"Dad,  it's  wonderful!"  he  exclaimed.  "How 
did  you  do  it?" 


THE  WAY  279 

"You  know.  You  heard  yourself." 

"Yes;  but  to  copy  it  like  that  — !  Why,  I  could 
hear  him  tell  it  as  you  read  it,  dad.  I  could  hear  him." 

"Could  you,  really?  I'm  glad.  That  makes  me 
know  I've  succeeded.  Now  for  a  publisher!" 

"You  would  n't  publish  it  without  his  —  know- 
ing?" 

"  Certainly  not.  But  I  'm  going  to  let  a  publisher 
see  it,  before  he  knows." 

"Y-yes,  perhaps." 

"Why,  Keith,  I'd  have  to  do  that.  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  'd  run  the  risk  of  its  being  turned  down,  and 
then  have  to  tell  that  boy  that  he  could  n't  have  the 
book,  after  all?" 

"No,  no,  I  suppose  not.  But  —  it  is  n't  going  to 
be  turned  down,  dad.  Such  a  wonderful  thing  can't 
be  turned  down." 

"  Hm-m ;  perhaps  not."  Daniel  Burton's  lips  came 
together  a  bit  grimly.  "But  —  there  are  wonderful 
things  that  won't  sell,  you  know.  However,"  he 
finished  with  brisk  cheerfulness,  "this  is  n't  one  of 
my  pictures,  nor  a  bit  of  Susan's  free  verse;  so  there 's 
some  hope,  I  guess.  Anyhow,  we'll  see  —  but  we 
won't  tell  John  until  we  do  see." 

"All  right.  I  suppose  that  would  be  best,"  sighed 
Keith,  still  a  little  doubtfully. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait,  after  all.  In  a  remark- 
ably short  time  came  back  word  from  the  publishers. 
Most  emphatically  they  wanted  the  book,  and  they 
wanted  it  right  away.  Moreover,  the  royalty  they 
offered  was  so  good  that  it  sent  Daniel  Burton  down 


280  DAWN 

the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  like  a  boy,  in  his  eager- 
ness to  reach  Keith  with  the  good  news. 

"And  now  for  John!"  he  cried  excitedly,  as  soon 
as  Keith's  joyous  exclamations  over  the  news  were 
uttered.   "Come,  let's  go  across  now." 

"But,  dad,  how  —  how  are  you  going  to  tell 
him?"  Keith  was  holding  back  a  little. 

"Tell  him!  I'm  just  going  to  tell  him,"  laughed 
the  man.   "That's  easy." 

"I  know;  but  —  but — "  Keith  wet  his  lips  and 
started  again.  "You  see,  dad,  he  did  n't  know  we 
were  taking  notes  of  his  stories.  He  could  n't  see 
us.  We  —  we  took  advantage  of  — " 

But  Daniel  Burton  would  not  even  listen. 

"Shucks  and  nonsense,  Keith!"  he  cried.  Then  a 
little  grimly  he  added : "  I  only  wish  somebody  'd  take 
advantage  like  that  of  me,  and  sell  a  picture  or  two 
when  I  'm  not  looking.  Come,  we  're  keeping  John 
waiting."  And  he  took  firm  hold  of  his  son's  arm. 

Yet  in  the  McGuire  living-room,  in  the  presence 
of  John  McGuire  himself,  he  talked  fully  five 
minutes  of  nothing  in  particular,  before  he  said: 

"Well,  John,  I've  got  some  good  news  for  you." 

"Good  news?" 

"That's  what  I'd  call  it.  I  —  er  —  hear  you're 
going  to  have  a  book  out  in  the  spring." 

"  I  'm  going  to  —  what  ?  " 

"Have  a  book  out  —  war  stories.  They  were  too 
good  to  keep  to  ourselves,  John,  so  I  jotted  them 
down  as  you  told  them,  and  last  week  I  sent  them 
off  to  a  publisher." 


THE  WAY  281 

"A  —  a  real  publisher?"  The  boy's  voice  shook. 
Every  trace  of  color  had  drained  from  his  face. 

"You  bet  your  life  —  and  one  of  the  biggest  in 
the  country."  Daniel  Burton's  own  voice  was 
shaking.  He  had  turned  his  eyes  away  from  John 
McGuire's  face. 

"And  they'll  — print  it?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  ever  you'll  sign  the  contract. 
And,  by  the  way,  that  contract  happens  to  be  a 
mighty  good  one,  for  a  first  book,  my  boy." 

John  McGuire  drew  a  long  breath.  The  color 
was  slowly  coming  back  to  his  face. 

"But  I  can't  seem  to  quite  —  believe  it,"  he  fal- 
tered. 

"Nonsense!  Simplest  thing  in  the  world,"  in- 
sisted Daniel  Burton  brusquely.  "They  saw  the 
stories,  liked  them,  and  are  going  to  publish  them. 
That's  all." 

"All!  All!"  The  blind  boy  was  on  his  feet,  his 
face  working  with  emotion.  "When  all  my  life 
I've  dreamed  and  dreamed  and  longed  for  — "  He 
stopped  short  and  sat  down.  He  had  the  embarrassed 
air  the  habitually  reserved  person  usually  displays 
when  caught  red-handed  making  a  "scene."  He 
gave  a  confused  laugh.  "I  was  only  thinking  — 
what  a  way.  You  see  —  I  'd  always  wanted  to  be 
a  writer,  but  I'd  given  it  up  long  ago.  I  had  my 
living  to  earn,  and  I  knew  I  could  n't  earn  it  —  that 
way — not  at  first.  I  used  to  say  I  'd  give  anything  if 
I  could  write  a  book;  and  I  was  just  wondering  if  — 
if  I'd  been  willing  then  to  have  given  —  my  eyes!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND 

IT  was  on  a  mild  day  early  in  February  that 
Susan  met  Dorothy  Parkman  on  the  street.  She 
stopped  her  at  once. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  glad  to  see  you!"  she  cried.  "I 
did  n't  know  you'd  got  back." 

"I  have  n't  been  back  long,  Susan." 

"You  hain't  been  over  to  see  us  once,  Miss 
Dorothy,"  Susan  reproached  her. 

"I  —  I  have  been  very  busy."  Miss  Dorothy 
seemed  ill  at  ease,  and  anxious  to  get  away. 

"An'  you  did  n't  come  for  a  long,  long  time  when 
you  was  here  last  fall."  Susan  had  laid  a  detaining 
hand  on  the  girl's  arm  now. 

"Didn't  I?"  Miss  Dorothy  smiled  brightly. 
"Well,  perhaps  I  did  n't.  But  you  didn't  need 
me,  anyway.  I've  heard  all  about  it  —  the  splen- 
did work  Mr.  Burton  and  his  son  have  done  for 
John  McGuire.  And  I'm  so  glad." 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right."  Susan  spoke  with- 
out enthusiasm. 

"And  the  book  is  going  to  be  published?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes."  Susan  still  spoke  with  a  preoc- 
cupied frown. 

"Why,  Susan,  what's  the  matter?  I  thought 
you'd  be  glad." 

Susan  drew  a  long  sigh. 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       283 

"I  am  glad,  Miss  Dorothy.  I'm  awful  glad  —  for 
John  McGuire.  They  say  it's  wonderful,  the  change 
in  him  already.  He's  so  proud  an'  happy  to  think 
he's  done  it  —  not  sinfully  proud,  you  understand, 
but  just  humbly  proud  an'  glad.  An'  his  ma  says 
he 's  writin'  other  things  now  —  poems  an'  stories, 
an'  he 's  as  happy  as  a  lark  all  day.  An'  I  'm  awful 
glad.  But  it's  Keith  hisself  that  I'm  thinkin'  of. 
You  see,  only  yesterday  I  found  him  —  cryin'." 

"Crying!"  Miss  Dorothy  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten all  about  her  haste  to  get  away.  She  had 
Susan's  arm  in  her  grasp  now.  She  had  pulled  her 
to  one  side,  too,  where  they  could  have  a  little  shel- 
tered place  to  talk,  in  the  angle  of  two  store  windows. 

"Yes,  cryin'.  You  see,  't  was  like  this,"  hurried 
on  Susan.  "Mis'  McGuire  was  over,  an'  I'd  been 
readin'  a  new  poem  to  her  an'  him.  'T  was  a  real 
pretty  one,  too,  if  I  do  say  it  as  should  n't  —  the 
best  I  ever  done;  all  about  how  fame  an'  beauty  an' 
pleasure  did  n't  count  no  thin'  beside  workin'.  I  got 
the  idea  out  of  something  I  found  in  a  magazine. 
'T  was  jest  grand;  an'  it  give  me  the  perspiration 
right  away  to  turn  it  into  a  poem.  An'  I  did.  An' 
't  was  that  I  was  readin'.  I'd  jest  got  it  done  that 
mornin'." 

"Yes,  yes,"  nodded  Miss  Dorothy.   "I  see." 

"Well,  I  never  thought  of  its  meanin' anything 
to  Keith,  or  of  his  takin'  it  nohow  wrong;  but  after 
Mis'  McGuire  had  gone  home  (she  came  out  an' 
set  with  me  a  spell  first  in  the  kitchen)  I  heard  a 
queer  little  noise  in  the  settin'-room,  an'  I  went  an* 


284  DAWN 

looked  in.  Keith  was  at  the  table,  his  arms  flung 
straight  out  in  front  of  him,  an'  his  head  bowed 
down.  An',  Miss  Dorothy,  he  was  cryin'  like  a 
baby." 

"Oh,  Susan,  what  did  you  do?  What  did  you 
say?" 

"Say?  Nothin' !"  Susan's  eyes  flashed  her  scorn. 
"Do  you  s'pose  I'd  let  that  poor  lamb  know  I  see 
him  cryin'?  Well,  I  guess  not!  I  backed  out  as  soft 
as  a  feather  bed,  an'  I  did  n't  go  near  that  settin'- 
room  for  an  hour,  nor  let  any  one  else.  I  was  a 
regular  dragon-fly  guardin'  it.  Well,  by  an'  by 
Keith  comes  out.  His  face  was  white  an'  strained- 
lookin'.  But  he  was  smiling,  an'  he  handed  out  my 
poem  —  I  'd  left  it  on  the  table  when  I  come  out 
with  Mis'  McGuire.  'I  found  this  paper  on  the 
table,  Susan.  It's  your  poem,  isn't  it?'  he  says 
real  cheerful-like.  Then  he  turns  kind  of  quick 
an'  leaves  the  room  without  another  word. 

"Well,  I  did  n't  know  then  that 't  was  the  poem 
he'd  been  cryin'  over.  I  didn't  know  —  till  this 
mornin'.  Then  somethin'  he  said  made  me  see 
right  off." 

"Why,  Susan,  what  was  it?" 

"  It  was  somethin'  about  —  work.  But  first  you 
would  n't  understand  it,  unless  you  see  the  poem. 
An'  I  can  show  it  to  you,  'cause  I've  got  it  right 
here.  I'm  tryin'  to  memorialize  it,  so  I  keep  it  with 
me  all  the  time,  an'  repeat  one  line  over  an'  over 
till  I  get  it.  It's  right  here  in  my  bag.  You'll  find 
it's  the  best  I've  wrote,  Miss  Dorothy;  I'm  sure 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       285 

you  will,"  she  went  on  a  bit  wistfully.  "You  see 
I  used  a  lot  of  the  words  that  was  in  the  magazine 
—  not  that  I  pleasurized  it  any,  of  course.  Mine 's 
different,  'cause  mine  is  poetry  an'  theirs  is  prosy. 
There !  I  guess  maybe  you  can  read  it,  even  if  't  is 
my  writin',"  she  finished,  taking  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper  from  her  bag  and  carefully  spreading  it  out 
for  Miss  Dorothy  to  read. 

And  this  is  what  Dorothy  read: 

CONTENTMENT 

Wealth 
I  asked  for  the  earth  —  but  when  in  my  hands 

It  shriveled  and  crumbled  away; 
And  the  green  of  its  trees  and  the  blue  of  its  skies 

Changed  to  a  somber  gray. 

Beauty 
I  asked  for  the  moon  —  but  the  shimmering  thing 

Was  only  reflected  gold, 
And  vanished  away  at  my  glance  and  touch, 

And  was  then  but  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Pleasure 
I  asked  for  the  stars  —  and  lots  of  them  came, 

And  twinkled  and  danced  for  me; 
But  the  whirling  lights  soon  wearied  my  gaze  — 

I  squenched  their  flame  in  the  sea. 

Fame 
I  asked  for  the  sun!  —  but  the  fiery  ball, 

Brought  down  from  its  home  on  high, 
Scorched  and  blistered  my  finger  tips, 

As  I  swirled  it  back  to  the  sky. 

Labor 

I  asked  for  a  hoe,  and  I  set  me  to  work, 

And  my  red  blood  danced  as  I  went: 
At  night  I  rested,  and  looking  back, 

I  counted  my  day  well  spent. 


286  DAWN 

"But,  Susan,  I  don't  see,"  began  Miss  Dorothy, 
lifting  puzzled  eyes  from  the  last  line  of  the  poem, 
"I  don't  see  what  there  is  about  that  to  make  Mr. 
Keith  —  cry." 

"No,  I  didn't,  till  this  mornin';  an*  then  — 
Well,  Keith  came  out  into  the  kitchen  an'  begun 
one  of  them  tramps  of  his  up  an'  down  the  room. 
It  always  drives  me  nearly  crazy  when  he  does  that, 
but  I  can't  say  anything,  of  course.  I  did  begin 
this  mornin'  to  talk  about  John  McGuire  an'  how 
fine  it  was  he'd  got  somethin'  he  could  do.  I 
thought  't  would  take  the  poor  boy's  mind  off  his- 
self ,  if  I  could  get  him  talkin'  about  John  McGuire 
—  he's  been  so  interested  in  John  all  winter!  An' 
so  glad  he  could  help  him.  You  know  he's  always 
so  wanted  to  help  somebody  hisself  instead  of  al- 
ways havin'  somebody  helpin'  him.  But,  dear  me, 
instead  of  its  bein'  a  quieter  now  for  him,  it  was  a 
regular  stirrup. 

"  'That's  just  it,  that's  just  it,  Susan,'  he  moans. 
*  You've  got  to  have  work  or  you  die.  There's 
no  thin'  in  the  whole  world  like  work  —  your  work! 
John  McGuire 's  got  his  work,  an'  I'm  glad  of  it. 
But  where 's  mine?  Where's  mine,  I  tell  you?' 

"An'  I  told  him  he'd  jest  been  havin'  his  work, 
helpin'  John  McGuire.  You  know  it  was  wonderful, 
perfectly  wonderful,  Miss  Dorothy,  the  way  them 
two  men  got  hold  of  John  McGuire.  You  know 
John  would  n't  speak  to  anybody,  not  anybody,  till 
Keith  an'  his  father  found  some  way  to  get  on  the 
inside  of  his  shell.  An'  Keith  's  been  so  happy  all 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       287 

winter  doin'  it;  an'  his  father,  too.  So  I  tried  to 
remind  him  that  he'd  been  doin'  his  work. 

"But  it  did  n't  do  no  good.  Keith  said  that  was 
all  very  well,  an'  he  was  glad,  of  course;  but  that 
was  only  a  little  bit  of  a  thing,  an'  't  was  all  past 
an'  gone,  an'  John  did  n't  need  'em  any  more,  an' 
there  was  n't  anything  left  for  him  now  at  all.  Oh, 
Miss  Dorothy,  he  talked  awfully.  I  never  heard 
him  run  on  so.  An'  I  knew,  from  a  lot  of  it  that 
he  said,  that  he  was  thinkin'  of  that  poem  — •  he 
would  n't  ask  for  wealth  or  beauty  or  fame,  or  any- 
thing, an'  that  there  did  n't  anything  count  but 
labor.  You  see?" 

"Yes,  I  —  see."  Miss  Dorothy's  voice  was 
very  low.  Her  face  was  turned  quite  away,  yet 
Susan  was  very  sure  that  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"An'  his  father!  —  he's  'most  as  bad  as  Keith," 
sighed  Susan.  "They  're  both  as  nervous  as  witches, 
what  with  the  war  an'  all,  an'  they  not  bein'  able 
to  do  anything.  Oh,  they  do  give  money  —  lots  of 
it  —  Liberty  Bonds  an'  Red  Cross,  an'  drives,  of 
course.  You  knew  they  'd  got  it  now  —  their  money, 
did  n't  you,  Miss  Dorothy?" 

"Yes,  I  had  heard  so." 

"Not  that  it  seems  to  do  'em  any  particular 
good,"  complained  Susan  wistfully.  "Oh,  of  course 
things  ain't  so  —  so  ambiguous  as  they  was,  an' 
we  have  more  to  eat  an'  wear,  an'  don't  have  to 
worry  about  bills.  But  they  ain't  any  happier,  as 
I  can  see.  If  only  Keith  could  find  somethin'  — " 


288  DAWN 

"Yes,  I  know/'  sighed  Miss  Dorothy  again,  as 
she  turned  slowly  away.   "I  wish  he  —  could." 

"Well,  come  to  see  us,  won't  you?"  urged  Susan 
anxiously.  "That'll  help  some  —  it'll  help  a  lot." 

But  Miss  Dorothy  did  not  seem  to  have  heard. 
At  least  she  did  not  answer.  Yet  not  twenty-four 
hours  later  she  was  ringing  the  Burtons'  doorbell. 

"No,  no  —  not  there!  I  want  to  see  you,"  she 
panted  a  little  breathlessly,  when  Susan  would  have 
led  the  way  to  the  living-room. 

"But  Keith  would  be  so  glad  — "  begged  Susan. 

"  No,  no !  I  particularly  don't  want  him  to  know 
I  am  here,"  insisted  Dorothy. 

And  without  further  ado,  but  with  rebellious  lips 
and  eyes,  Susan  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen. 

"Susan,  I  have  a  scheme,  I  think,  that  may  help 
out  Mr.  Keith,"  began  the  young  girl  abruptly. 
"  I  '11  have  to  begin  by  telling  you  something  of  what 
I've  seen  during  these  last  two  or  three  months, 
while  I  've  been  away.  A  Mr.  Wilson,  an  old  college 
friend  of  my  father's,  has  been  taking  a  lot  of  inter- 
est in  the  blind  —  especially  since  the  war.  He  got 
to  thinking  of  the  blinded  soldiers  and  wishing  he 
could,  help  them.  He  had  seen  some  of  them  in 
Canada,  and  talked  with  them.  What  he  thought 
of  first  for  them  was  brooms,  and  basket-weaving 
and  chair-caning,  same  as  everybody  does.  But  he 
found  they  had  a  perfect  horror  of  those  things. 
They  said  nobody  bought  such  things  except  out 
of  pity  —  they  'd  rather  have  the  machine-made 
kind.  And  these  men  did  n't  want  things  bought  of 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       289 

them  out  of  pity.  You  see,  they  were  big,  well, 
strong,  young  fellows,  like  John  McGuirehere;  and 
they  were  groping  around,  trying  to  find  a  way  to 
live  all  those  long  years  of  darkness  that  they  knew 
were  ahead  of  them.  They  did  n't  have  any  especial 
talent.  But  they  wanted  to  work,  —  do  something 
that  was  necessary  —  not  be  charity  folks,  as  they 
called  it." 

"I  know,"  responded  Susan  sympathetically. 

"Well,  this  Mr.  Wilson  is  at  the  head  of  a  big 
electrical  machinery  manufacturing  company  near 
Chicago,  like  Mr.  Sanborn's  here,  you  know. 
And  suddenly  one  day  it  came  to  him  that  he  had 
the  very  thing  right  in  his  own  shop  —  a  necessary 
kind  of  work  that  the  blind  could  be  taught  to  do." 

"My  Ian',  what  was  it?  Think  of  blind  folks 
goin'  to  work  in  a  big  shop  like  Tom  Sanborn's!" 

"I  know  it.  But  there  was  something.  It  was 
wrapping  the  coils  of  wire  with  tape.  Mr.  Wilson 
said  they  used  hundreds  of  thousands  of  these  coils 
all  the  time,  and  they  had  to  be  wrapped  to  insu- 
late them.  It  was  this  work  that  he  believed  the 
blind  could  learn  to  do.  Anyhow,  he  determined  to 
try  it.  And  try  it  he  did.  He  sent  for  those  sol- 
diers he  had  talked  with  in  Canada,  and  he  took 
two  or  three  of  father's  patients,  and  opened  a  little 
winding-room  with  a  good  electrical  engineer  in 
charge.  And,  do  you  know?  it  was  wonderful,  the 
way  those  poor  fellows  took  hold  of  that  work! 
Why,  they  got  really  skillful  in  no  time,  and  they 
learned  to  do  it  swiftly,  too." 


290  DAWN 

"My  Ian'!"  breathed  Susan  again. 

"They  did.  He  took  me  in  to  see  them  one  day. 
It  was  just  a  big  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  an 
office  building.  He  did  n't  put  them  in  his  shop. 
He  said  he  wanted  to  keep  them  separate,  for  the 
present,  anyway.  It  had  two  or  three  long  tables, 
and  the  superintendent  moved  up  and  down  the 
room  overseeing  their  work,  and  helping  where  it 
was  necessary.  There  was  a  new  man  that  morning, 
and  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  how  he  took  hold 
of  it.  And  they  were  all  so  happy,  laughing  and 
talking,  and  having  the  best  time  ever;  but  they 
sobered  up  real  earnest  when  Mr.  Wilson  intro- 
duced one  or  two  of  them  to  me.  One  man  in  par- 
ticular —  he  was  one  of  the  soldiers,  a  splendid, 
great,  blond  fellow  six  feet  tall,  and  only  twenty- 
one  —  told  me  what  this  work  meant  to  them;  how 
glad  they  were  to  feel  of  real  use  in  the  world.  Then 
his  face  flushed,  and  his  shoulders  straightened  a 
bit.  'And  we're  even  helping  a  little  to  win  the 
war,'  he  said,  'for  these  coils  we  are  winding  now 
are  for  some  armatures  to  go  in  some  big  motors 
that  are  going  to  be  used  in  making  munitions.  So 
you  see,  we  are  helping  —  a  little.'  Bless  his  heart! 
He  did  n't  know  how  much  he  was  helping  every 
one,  just  by  his  big,  brave  courage. 

"Well,  Susan,  all  this  gave  me  an  idea,  after 
what  you  said  yesterday  about  Mr.  Keith.  And  I 
wondered  —  why  could  n't  he  wind  coils,  too?  And 
maybe  he'd  get  others  to  do  it  also.  So  I  went  to 
Mr.  Sanborn,  and  he's  perfectly  willing  to  let  us 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       291 

give  it  a  trial.  He's  pleased  and  interested,  and 
says  he  will  furnish  everything  for  the  experiment, 
including  a  first-class  engineer  to  superintend;  only 
he  can't  spend  any  time  over  it  himself,  and  we  '11 
have  to  get  somebody  else  to  take  charge  and  make 
arrangements,  about  the  place,  and  the  starting  of 
it,  and  all  that.  And,  Susan,  now  comes  my  second 
idea.  Could  we  —  do  you  suppose  we  could  get 
Mr.  Daniel  Burton  to  take  charge  of  it?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Dorothy,  if  we  only  could!" 

"It  would  be  so  fine  for  Mr.  Keith,  and  for  all 
the  others.  I've  been  hearing  everywhere  how 
wonderfully  he  got  hold  of  John  McGuire." 

"He  did,  he  did,"  cried  Susan,  "an'  he  was  like 
a  different  man  all  the  time  he  was  doin'  it.  He 
hain't  had  no  use  for  his  paintin'  lately,  an'  he's 
been  so  uneasy.  I'm  sure  he'll  do  it,  if  you  ask 
him." 

"Good!  Then  I  will.  Is  —  is  he  at  home  to- 
day?" 

"Yes,  he's  upstairs.  I'll  call  him."  Susan  sprang 
to  her  feet  with  alacrity. 

"But,  Susan,  just  a  minute!"  Miss  Dorothy  had 
put  out  a  detaining  hand.  "Is  —  is  Mr.  Keith  here, 
too?" 

'  Yes,  both  of  'em.  Keith  is  in  the  settin'-room 
an*  I  '11  call  his  father  down.  'T  won't  take  but  jest 
a  minute."  Susan  was  plainly  chafing  at  the  de- 
taining hand. 

"No,  no,  Susan!"  Miss  Dorothy,  too,  had  sprung 
to  her  feet.    "If  —  if  Mr.  Keith  is  here  I'll  wait. 


292  DAWN 

I  want  to  see  Mr.  Daniel  Burton  first  —  er  —  alone: 
to  —  to  tell  him  about  it,  you  know,"  she  added 
hastily,  as  Susan  began  to  frown  her  disappoint- 
ment. 

"But  I  don't  see  why,"  argued  Susan,  her  dis- 
approving eyes  on  the  girl's  flushed  cheeks.  "I 
should  think  you'd  want  to  talk  it  up  with  both 
of  'em." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course;  but  not  —  not  at  first," 
stammered  Miss  Dorothy,  plainly  growing  more 
and  more  embarrassed  as  she  tried  to  appear  less  so. 
"I  would  rather  —  er  —  that  is,  I  think  it  would 
be  better  to  ask  Mr.  Daniel  Burton  first,  and  then 
after  we  get  it  well  started  let  him  tell  his  son.  So 
I  '11  come  to-morrow  in  the  morning  —  at  ten.  Mr. 
Keith  is  with  Mr.  John  McGuire,  then,  is  n't  he? 
And  over  at  his  house?   I  heard  he  was." 

"Yes,  he  is,  most  generally." 

"Then  I'll  come  then.  If  —  if  you'll  tell  Mr. 
Daniel  Burton,  please,"  hurried  on  Miss  Dorothy, 
"and  ask  him  to  see  me.  And  please,  please  keep 
it  from  Mr.  Keith,  Susan.  Truly,  I  don't  want  him 
to  know  a  thing  about  it  till  his  father  and  I  have 
—  have  got  it  all  fixed  up,"  she  finished. 

"But,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  know  that  Keith  would 
want  — 

"Susan!"  With  an  imperiousness  quite  foreign 
to  her  usual  manner,  Miss  Dorothy  cut  in  sharply. 
"If  you  don't  promise  to  speak  only  to  Mr.  Dan- 
iel Burton  about  this  matter  I  shall  not  come  at 
all." 


DOROTHY  TRIES  HER  HAND       293 

"Oh,  Ian'  sakes!  Well,  well,  have  it  your  own 
way,"  snapped  Susan. 

"You  promise?" 

"Yes,  I  promise."  Susan's  lips  obeyed,  but  her 
eyes  were  still  mutinous. 

"Good!  Thank  you,  Susan.  Then  I'll  come  to- 
morrow at  ten,"  nodded  Miss  Dorothy,  once  again 
her  smiling,  gracious  self,  as  she  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
DANIEL  BURTON'S  "JOB" 

DOROTHY  came  at  ten,  or,  to  be  strictly  accu- 
rate, at  five  minutes  past  ten.  The  additional 
five  minutes  had  been  consumed  by  her  going  out  of 
her  way  around  the  block  so  that  she  might  see  if 
Keith  were  visible  in  one  of  the  McGuires'  windows. 
He  was  visible  —  and  when  she  went  up  the  Burton 
walk  at  five  minutes  past  ten,  her  step  was  con- 
fident and  her  face  eager;  and  there  was  about  her 
manner  none  of  the  furtive,  nervous  questioning 
that  had  marked  her  coming  the  day  before. 

"Good-morning,  Susan,"  she  began  cheerily,  as 
Susan  answered  her  ring.  "Did  Mr.  Burton  say  he 
would  see  me?" 

"He  did.  And  Mr.  Keith  is  over  to  the  McGuires' 
all  safe,  so  you  don't  have  to  worry  about  him." 
Susan's  eyes  were  still  mutinous,  her  voice  still 
coldly  disapproving. 

"Yes,  I  know  he  is,"  nodded  Miss  Dorothy  with  a 
bright  smile. 

"Oh,  you  do!" 

"  Yes.  Well,  that  is  —  er  —  I  —  "  Under  Susan's 
uncompromising  frigidity  Miss  Dorothy's  stammer- 
ing tongue  came  to  a  painful  pause. 

"Humph!"  vouchsafed  Susan.  "Well,  come  in, 
an'  I'll  tell  Mr.  Daniel  Burton  you're  here." 

That  the  emphasis  on  "Daniel"   was  not  lost 


DANIEL  BURTON'S  JOB  295 

was  shown  by  the  sudden  broad  smile  that  chased 
away  the  confusion  on  Miss  Dorothy's  face,  as 
Susan  led  the  way  to  the  living-room.  Two  minutes 
later  Daniel  Burton,  thinner,  paler,  and  more  worn- 
looking  than  Dorothy  had  ever  seen  him  before, 
entered  the  room  and  held  out  a  cordial  hand. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Dorothy.  I'm  glad  to 
see  you,"  he  said.  "What  is  it, — Red  Cross, 
Y.M.C.A.,  Smileage  Books?"  The  whimsical  smile 
on  his  lips  only  served  to  emphasize  the  somber 
pain  in  his  eyes. 

"Not  any  of  them.  Then  Susan  did  n't  tell  you? " 

"Not  a  word.   Sit  down,  please." 

"Thank  you.  Then  I  shall  have  to  begin  at  the 
beginning,"  sighed  the  girl  a  little  constrainedly 
as  she  took  the  chair  he  offered  her.  "I  —  I  have  a 
certain  project  that  I  want  to  carry  out,  Mr.  Bur- 
ton, and  I  —  I  want  your  help." 

"  Why,  of  course  —  certainly.  I  shall  be  glad  to,  I 
know."  Daniel  Burton's  hand  had  already  reached 
for  his  check-book.  "Any  project  of  yours,  Miss 
Dorothy — !  How  much  do  you  want?" 

But  Miss  Dorothy  lifted  her  hand,  palm  outward. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Burton;  but  not  any  —  in 
money,  just  yet.  Oh,  it'll  take  money,  probably,  to 
get  it  started,  before  it 's  on  a  self-supporting  basis, 
I  suppose.  But  it  is  n't  money  I  want  to-day,  Mr. 
Burton.  It  —  it's  yourself." 

The  man  gave  a  short,  dry  laugh,  not  untinged 
with  bitterness. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  endorse  either  your  taste  or 


296  DAWN 

your  judgment  there,  Miss  Dorothy.  You've  come 
for  a  poor  stick.  I  can't  imagine  myself  as  being 
much  benefit  to  any  sort  of  project.  However,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  hear  about  it,  of  course.  What  is  it?" 

And  Miss  Dorothy  told  him.  With  her  eyes  shin- 
ing, and  her  voice  quivering  with  eagerness,  she 
told  the  story  as  she  had  told  it  to  Susan  the  after- 
noon before,  but  with  even  greater  elaboration  of 
detail. 

"And  so  now,  Mr.  Burton,  you  —  you  will  help, 
won't  you?"  she  begged,  in  closing. 

"Help!  But  my  dear  girl,  how?" 

"Take  charge.  Be  the  head  and  shoulders,  the 
backbone  of  the  whole  thing.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  it 's  a 
whole  lot  to  ask,"  she  hurried  on,  as  she  saw  the 
dawning  dismay  and  refusal  in  his  face.  "But  I 
thought,  for  the  sake  of  the  cause  — " 

"The  cause!"  The  man's  voice  was  bitter  as  he 
interrupted  her.  "  I  'd  crawl  to  France  on  my  hands 
and  knees  if  that  would  do  any  good !  But,  my  dear 
young  lady,  I  'm  an  ignoramus,  and  worse  than  an 
ignoramus,  when  it  comes  to  machinery.  I'll  ven- 
ture to  wager  that  I  would  n't  know  the  tape  from 
the  coils  —  or  whatever  they  are." 

"Oh,  we'd  have  an  engineer  for  that  part,  of 
course,"  interposed  the  girl  eagerly.  "And  we  want 
your  son,  too." 

"You  want  Keith!  Pray,  do  you  expect  him  to 
teach  how  to  wind  coils?" 

"No  —  no  —  not  exactly;  —  though  I  think  he 
will  be  teaching  before  he  realizes  it.  I  want  him  to 


DANIEL  BURTON'S  JOB  297 

learn  to  wind  them  himself,  and  thus  get  others  to 
learn.  You  don't  understand,  Mr.  Burton.  I  want 
you  and  Mr.  Keith  to  —  to  do  just  what  you  did 
for  John  McGuire  —  arouse  interest  and  enthusi- 
asm and  get  them  to  do  it.   Don't  you  see?" 

"But  that  was  Keith,  not  I,  in  the  case  of  John 
McGuire." 

"It  was  you  at  the  last,"  corrected  the  girl 
gently.  "Mr.  Burton,  John  McGuire  wouldn't 
have  any  book  out  this  spring  if  it  were  n't  for  you 
and  —  your  eyes." 

"Hm-m,  perhaps  not.  Still  there 'd  have  been  a 
way,  probably.  But  even  if  I  grant  that  —  all  you 
say  in  the  case  of  John  McGuire  —  that  is  n't 
winding  armatures,  or  whatever  they  are." 

"Mr.  Burton,  you  aren't  going  to  refuse," 
pleaded  the  girl. 

"'What  else  can  I  do?  Miss  Dorothy,  you  don't 
want  to  stamp  this  project  of  yours  a  failure  from 
the  start,  do  you?"  Words,  voice,  manner,  and 
gesture  were  unmistakable.  All  the  longing  and 
heartache  and  bitterness  of  years  of  fruitless  effort 
and  final  disappointment  pulsated  through  that  one 
word  failure. 

For  a  moment  nobody  spoke.  Daniel  Burton  had 
got  to  his  feet  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  window. 
The  girl,  watching  him  with  compassionate  eyes 
as  he  stood  looking  out,  had  caught  her  breath 
with  a  little  choking  sigh.  Suddenly  she  lifted  her 
head  resolutely. 

"Mr.  Burton,  you've  got  one  gift  that  —  that  I 


298  DAWN 

don't  believe  you  realize  at  all  that  you  possess. 
Like  John  McGuire  you  can  make  folks  see  what 
you  are  talking  about.  Perhaps  it's  because  you 
can  paint  pictures  with  a  brush.  Or  —  or  perhaps 
it 's  because  you ' ve  got  such  a  wonderful  command 
of  words."  (Miss  Dorothy  stumbled  a  little  precipi- 
tately into  this  sentence  —  she  had  not  failed  to  see 
the  disdainful  movement  of  the  man's  head  and 
shoulders  at  the  mention  of  his  pictures.)  "What- 
ever it  is,"  she  hurried  on,  "you've  got  it.  I  saw  it 
first  years  ago,  with  —  with  your  son,  when  I  used  to 
see  him  at  father's.  He  would  sit  and  talk  to  me  by 
the  hour  about  the  woods  and  fields  and  mountains, 
the  sunsets  and  the  flowers  back  home;  and  little  by 
little  I  found  out  that  they  were  the  pictures  you 
drew  for  him  —  on  the  canvas  of  his  soul.  You  've 
done  it  again  now  for  John  McGuire.  Do  you  sup- 
pose you  could  have  caught  those  wonderful  stories 
of  his  with  your  pencil,  if  you  had  n't  been  able 
to  help  him  visualize  them  for  himself  —  you  and 
Keith  together  with  your  wonderful  enthusiasm 
and  interest? 

"I  know  you  could  n't.  And  that's  what  I  want 
you  now  for  —  you  and  your  son.  Because  he  is 
blind,  and  knows,  and  understands,  as  no  seeing 
person  can  know  and  understand,  they  will  trust 
him;  they  will  follow  where  he  leads.  But  behind 
him  has  got  to  be  you.  You  've  got  to  be  the  eyes 
for  —  for  them  all;  not  to  teach  the  work  —  we'll 
have  others  for  that.  Any  good  mechanic  will  do 
for  that  part.   But  it 's  the  other  part  of  it  —  the 


DANIEL  BURTON'S  JOB  299 

soul  of  the  thing.  These  men,  lots  of  them,  are  but 
little  more  than  boys  —  big,  strong,  strapping  fel- 
lows with  the  whole  of  life  before  them.  And  they 
are  —  blind.  Whichever  way  they  turn  a  big  black 
curtain  shuts  them  in.  And  it's  those  four  black 
curtains  that  I  want  you  to  paint.  I  want  you  to 
give  them  something  to  look  at,  something  to  think 
of,  something  to  live  for.  And  you  can  do  it.  And 
when  you  have  done  it,  you  '11  find  they  're  the  best 
and  —  and  the  biggest  pictures  you  ever  painted." 
Her  voice  broke  with  the  last  word  and  choked  into 
silence. 

Over  at  the  window  the  man  stood  motionless. 
One  minute,  two  minutes  passed.  Then  a  bit 
abruptly  he  turned,  crossed  the  room  to  the  girl's 
side,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Miss  Dorothy,  I  —  I  '11  take  the  job,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  lightly,  and  he  smiled  as  he  said  the 
words ;  but  neither  the  smile  nor  the  lightness  of  his 
manner  quite  hid  the  shake  in  his  voice  nor  the 
moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Burton.  I  was  sure  you  would," 
cried  the  girl. 

"And  now  for  Keith !  He 's  over  to  the  McGuires'. 
I'll  get  him!"  exclaimed  the  man  boyishly. 

But  Miss  Dorothy  was  instantly  on  her  feet. 

"No,  no,  please,"  she  begged  a  little  breathlessly. 
"I'd  rather  you  did  n't  —  now.  I  —  I  think  we'd 
better  get  it  a  little  farther  along  before  we  tell  him. 
There 's  a  whole  lot  to  do,  you  know  —  getting  the 
room  and  the  materials  and  the  superintendent, 


300  DAWN 

and  all  that;  and  there  is  n't  a  thing  he  can  do  — 

yet." 

"All  right.  Very  good.  Perhaps  that  would  be 
better,"  nodded  the  man.  "But,  let  me  tell  you,  I 
already  have  some  workers  for  your  project." 

"You  mean  Jack  Green,  here  in  town?" 

"No.  Oh,  we'd  want  him,  of  course;  but  it's 
some  others  —  a  couple  of  boys  from  Hillsboro. 
I  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  the  father  of  one  of  the 
boys,  asking  what  to  do  with  his  son.  He  thought 
because  of  —  of  Keith,  that  I  could  help  him.  It 
was  a  pitiful  letter.  The  man  was  heart-broken 
and  utterly  at  sea.  His  boy  —  only  nineteen  —  had 
come  home  blind,  and  well-nigh  crazed  with  the 
tragedy  of  it.  And  the  father  did  n't  know  which 
way  to  turn.  That's  why  he  had  appealed  to  me. 
You  see,  on  account  of  Keith  — " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  the  girl  gently,  as  the 
man  left  his  sentence  unfinished. 

"I've  had  others,  too  —  several  of  them  —  in  the 
last  few  weeks.  If  you'll  wait  I'll  get  the  letters." 
He  was  already  halfway  to  the  door.  "It  may  take 
a  minute  or  two  to  look  them  up;  but  —  they'll  be 
worth  it,  I  think." 

"Of  course  they  will,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "They  '11 
be  just  exactly  what  we  want,  and  I  'm  not  in  a  bit 
of  a  hurry,"  she  finished,  dropping  back  in  her  chair 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

Alone,  she  looked  about  the  room,  her  eyes  wist- 
ful, brimming  with  unshed  tears.  Over  by  the  win- 
dow was  Keith's  chair,  before  it  the  table,  with  a 


DANIEL  BURTON'S  JOB  301 

half -completed  picture  puzzle  spread  upon  it.  Near 
the  table  was  a  set  of  shelves  containing  other  pic- 
ture puzzles,  games,  and  books  —  all,  as  the  girl 
well  knew,  especially  designed  and  constructed  for 
eyes  that  could  not  see. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  half  started  to  cross 
the  room  toward  the  table  when  the  door  to  the  side 
hall  opened  and  Keith  Burton  entered  the  room. 

With  a  half -stifled  gasp  the  girl  stepped  back  to 
her  chair.  The  blind  boy  stopped  instantly,  his  face 
turned  toward  her. 

"Is  that  —  you,  Susan?" 

The  girl  wet  her  lips,  but  no  words  came. 

"Who's  there,  please?"  He  spoke  sharply  this 
time.  As  everybody  knew  —  who  knew  Keith  — 
the  one  thing  that  angered  him  more  than  anything 
else  was  the  attempted  deception  as  to  one's  pres- 
ence in  the  room. 

Miss  Dorothy  gave  a  confused  little  laugh,  and 
put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Why,  Keith,  it's  only  I!  Don't  look  so  — " 

"You?"  For  one  brief  moment  his  face  lighted 
up  as  with  a  hidden  flame;  then  instantly  it  changed. 
It  became  like  the  gray  of  ashes  after  the  flame  is 
spent.  "Why  did  n't  you  speak,  then?"  he  ques- 
tioned. "It  did  no  good  to  keep  quiet.  You  must  n't 
forget  that  I  have  ears  —  if  I  have  n't  eyes." 

"Nonsense,  Keith!"  She  laughed  again  con- 
fusedly, though  her  own  face  had  paled  a  little.  "I 
did  speak  as  soon  as  I  caught  my  breath;  —  popping 
in  on  a  body  like  that!" 


302  DAWN 

"But  I  didn't  know — you  were  here,"  stam- 
mered the  young  fellow  uncertainly.  "Nobody 
called  me.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  — "  He  came  to 
a  helpless  pause. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  You  need  n't.  It  was  n't  neces- 
sary at  all."  The  girl  tossed  off  the  words  with  a 
lightness  so  forced  that  it  was  almost  flippancy. 
"You  see,  I  did  n't  come  to  see  you  at  all.  It  was 
your  father." 

"My  father!" 

"Certainly." 

"But  —  but  does  he  know?" 

The  girl  laughed  merrily  — ■  too  merrily  for  sin- 
cerity. 

"Know?  Indeed  he  does.  We've  just  been  hav- 
ing a  lovely  talk.  He's  gone  upstairs  for  some  let- 
ters.  He's  coming  right  back  —  right  back." 

"Oh-h!"  Was  it  an  indefinable  something  in  her 
voice,  or  was  it  the  repetition  of  the  last  two  words? 
Whatever  it  was  that  caused  it,  Keith  turned  away 
with  a  jerk,  walked  with  the  swift  sureness  of  long 
familiarity  straight  to  the  set  of  shelves  and  took 
down  a  book.  "Then  I'll  not  disturb  you  any  fur- 
ther —  as  long  as  you're  not  needing  me,"  he  said 
tersely.  "I  only  came  for  this."  And  with  barely  a 
touch  of  his  cane  to  the  floor  and  door-casing,  he 
strode  from  the  room. 

The  pity  of  it  —  that  he  could  not  have  seen 
Dorothy  Parkman's  eyes  looking  after  him! 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
WHAT  SUSAN  DID  NOT  SEE 

THERE  was  apparently  no  limit  to  Daniel 
Burton's  enthusiastic  cooperation  with  Doro- 
thy Parkman  on  the  matter  of  establishing  a  work- 
room for  the  blind.  He  set  to  work  with  her  at 
once.  The  very  next  morning  after  her  initial  visit, 
he  went  with  her  to  Mazie  Sanborn's  father,  and 
together  they  formulated  the  first  necessary  plans. 

Thomas  Sanborn  was  generous,  and  cordially  en- 
thusiastic, though  his  words  and  manner  carried 
the  crisp  terseness  of  the  busy  man  whose  time  is 
money.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  he  summoned 
one  David  Patch  to  the  office,  and  introduced  him 
to  Miss  Dorothy  and  Daniel  Burton  as  one  of  his 
most  expert  engineers. 

"  And  now  I  '11  turn  the  whole  thing  over  to  you," 
he  declared  briskly,  with  his  finger  already  on  the 
button  that  would  summon  his  stenographer  for 
dictation.  "Just  step  into  that  room  there  and 
stay  as  long  as  you  like.  Whatever  Patch  says  I  '11 
back  up.  You'll  find  him  thoroughly  capable  and 
trustworthy.  And  now  good  luck  to  you,"  he  fin- 
ished, throwing  wide  the  door  of  the  adjoining 
room. 

The  next  moment  Miss  Dorothy  and  Daniel 
Burton  found  themselves  alone  with  the  keen-eyed, 
alert  little  man  who  had  been  introduced  as  David 


304  DAWN 

Patch.  And  David  Patch  did,  indeed,  appear  to  be 
very  capable.  He  evidently  understood  his  busi- 
ness, and  he  gave  interested  attention  to  Miss  Dor- 
othy's story  of  what  she  had  seen,  and  of  what  she 
wished  now  to  try  to  do.  He  took  them  then  for 
a  tour  of  the  great  shop,  especially  to  the  depart- 
ment where  the  busy  fingers  were  winding  with 
tape  the  thousands  of  wire  coils. 

Miss  Dorothy's  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement, 
and  she  fairly  clapped  her  hands  in  her  delight, 
while  Daniel  Burton  said  that  even  he  could  see 
the  possibilities  of  that  kind  of  work  for  their  pur- 
pose. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  hour  of  talking  and  plan- 
ning, Miss  Dorothy  and  Daniel  Burton  started  for 
home.  But  even  then  Daniel  Burton  had  yet  more 
to  say,  for  at  his  gate,  which  was  on  Miss  Doro- 
thy's way  home,  he  begged  her  to  come  in  for  a 
moment. 

"I  had  another  letter  to-day  about  a  blind  sol- 
dier —  this  time  from  Baltimore.  I  want  to  show  it 
to  you.  You  see,  so  many  write  to  me,  on  account 
of  my  own  boy.  You  will  come  in,  just  a  minute?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  —  will."  The  pause,  and 
the  half-stifled  word  that  finished  the  sentence 
came  as  the  tall  figure  of  Keith  Burton  turned  the 
corner  of  the  piazza  and  walked  toward  the  steps. 

"Hullo!  Dad?"   Keith's  voice  was  questioning. 

"Yes;  and—" 

"And  Dorothy  Parkman,"  broke  in  the  girl  with 
a  haste  so  precipitate  as  to  make  her  almost  choke. 


WHAT  SUSAN  DID  NOT  SEE        305 

"Miss  Parkman?"  Once  again,  for  a  moment, 
Keith's  face  lighted  as  with  a  flame.  "Come  up. 
Come  around  on  the  south  side,"  he  cried  eagerly. 
"I've  been  sunning  myself  there.  You'd  think  it 
was  May  instead  of  March." 

"No,  she  can't  go  and  sun  herself  with  you,"  in- 
terposed Daniel  Burton  with  mock  severity.  "She's 
coming  with  me  into  the  house.  I  want  to  show  her 
something." 

"Well,  I  —  I  like  that,"  retorted  the  youth.  He 
spoke  jauntily,  and  gave  a  short  little  laugh.  But 
the  light  had  died  from  his  face  and  a  slow  red  had 
crept  to  his  forehead. 

"Well,  she  can't.  She's  coming  with  me,"  reit- 
erated the  man.  "  Now  run  back  to  your  sun  bath. 
If  you  're  good  maybe  we  '11  be  out  pretty  soon,"  he 
laughed  back  at  his  son,  as  he  opened  the  house 
door  for  his  guest.  "That's  right  —  you  didn't 
want  him  to  know,  yet,  did  you?"  he  added,  look- 
ing a  bit  anxiously  into  the  girl's  somewhat  flushed 
face  as  he  closed  the  hall  door. 

"Quite  right.  No,  I  don't  want  him  to  know  yet. 
There 's  so  much  to  be  done  to  get  started,  and  he  'd 
want  to  help.  And  he  could  n't  help  about  that 
part;  and  't  would  only  fret  him  and  make  him  un- 
happy." 

"My  idea  exactly,"  nodded  the  man.  "When 
we  get  the  room,  and  the  goods  there,  we  '11  want  to 
tell  him  then." 

"Of  course,  you'll  tell  him  then,"  cried  the  girl. 

"Yes,  indeed,  of  course  we  will!"  exclaimed  the 


306  DAWN 

man,  very  evidently  not  noticing  the  change  in  the 
pronoun.  "  Now,  if  you  '11  wait  a  minute  I  '11  get  that 
letter,  then  we'll  go  out  to  Keith  on  the  piazza." 

It  was  a  short  letter,  and  one  quickly  read;  and 
very  soon  they  were  out  on  the  piazza  again.  But 
Miss  Dorothy  said  "No,  no!"  very  hastily  when  he 
urged  her  to  go  around  on  the  other  side;  and  she 
added,  "I  really  must  go  home  now,"  as  she  hurried 
down  the  steps.  Daniel  Burton  went  then  around 
the  corner  of  the  piazza  to  explain  her  absence  to 
his  son  Keith.  But  he  need  not  have  hurried.  His 
son  Keith  was  not  there. 

For  all  the  good  progress  that  was  made  on  that 
first  day,  things  seemed  to  move  a  bit  slowly  after 
that.  To  begin  with,  the  matter  of  selecting  a  suit- 
able room  gave  no  little  difficulty.  The  right  room 
in  the  right  location  seemed  not  to  be  had;  and 
Daniel  Burton  even  suggested  that  they  use  some 
room  in  his  own  house.  But  after  a  little  thought 
he  gave  up  this  idea  as  being  neither  practical  nor 
desirable. 

Meanwhile  he  was  in  daily  communication  with 
Dorothy  Parkman,  and  the  two  spent  hours  to- 
gether, thrashing  out  the  different  problems  one  by 
one  as  they  arose,  sometimes  at  her  home,  more 
frequently  at  his;  for  "home"  to  Dorothy  in  Hins- 
dale meant  the  Sanborn  house,  where  Mazie  was 
always  in  evidence  —  and  Daniel  Burton  did  not 
care  for  Mazie.  Especially  he  did  not  care  for  her 
advice  and  assistance  on  the  problems  that  were 
puzzling  him  now. 


WHAT  SUSAN  DID  NOT  SEE        307 

To  be  sure,  at  his  own  home  there  was  Keith; 
but  he  contrived  to  avoid  Keith  on  most  occasions. 
Besides,  Keith  himself  seemed  quite  inclined  to 
keep  out  of  the  way  (particularly  if  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Dorothy  Parkman),  which  did  not  disturb 
Daniel  Burton  in  the  least,  under  the  circum- 
stances. Until  they  got  ready  to  tell  Keith,  he  was 
rather  glad  that  he  did  keep  so  conveniently  out  of 
the  way.  And  as  Dorothy  seemed  always  glad  to 
avoid  seeing  Keith  or  talking  to  him,  there  was 
really  very  little  trouble  on  that  score;  and  they 
could  have  their  consultations  in  peace  and  quiet- 
ness. 

And  there  were  so  many  of  them  —  those  con- 
sultations !  When  at  last  the  room  was  found,  there 
were  the  furnishings  to  select,  and  the  final  plans  to 
be  made  for  the  real  work  to  be  done.  David  Patch 
proved  himself  to  be  invaluable  then.  As  if  by 
magic  a  long  table  appeared,  and  the  coils  and  the 
tape,  and  all  the  various  paraphernalia  of  a  prop- 
erly equipped  winding-room  marched  smoothly  into 
place.  Meanwhile  three  soldiers  and  one  civilian 
stood  ready  and  eager  to  be  taught,  needing  only 
the  word  of  command  to  begin. 

"And  now  we'll  tell  Keith,"  said  Daniel  Burton. 

"Yes;  now  you  must  tell  Keith,"  said  Miss  Dor- 
othy. 

"To-morrow  at  nine." 

"To-morrow  at  nine,"  bowed  Miss  Dorothy. 

"I'll  bring  him  down  and  we'll  show  him." 

"And  I  do  so  hope  he'll  like  it." 


308  DAWN 

"Of  course,  he'll  like  it!"  cried  Daniel  Burton. 
"You  wait  and  see." 

But  she  did  not  see.   She  was  not  there  to  see. 

Promptly  at  nine  o'clock  Daniel  Burton  ap- 
peared at  the  winding-room  with  Keith.  But  Dor- 
othy Parkman  was  nowhere  in  sight.  He  waited 
ten,  fifteen  minutes;  then  he  told  Keith  the  story  of 
the  room,  and  of  what  they  hoped  to  do  there,  fum- 
ing meanwhile  within  himself  because  he  had  to 
tell  it  alone. 

But  it  was  not  lack  of  interest  that  kept  Miss 
Dorothy  away.  It  could  not  have  been ;  for  that  very 
afternoon  she  sought  Daniel  Burton  out  and  asked 
eagerly  what  his  son  had  said,  and  how  he  had  taken 
it.  And  her  eyes  shone  and  her  breath  quickened 
at  the  story  Daniel  Burton  told;  and  so  eager  was 
she  to  know  every  little  word  that  had  fallen  from 
Keith's  lips  that  she  kept  Daniel  Burton  repeating 
over  and  over  each  minute  detail. 

Yet  the  next  day  when  Keith  and  four  other 
blind  youths  began  work  in  earnest,  she  never  once 
went  near  Keith's  chair,  though  she  went  often  to 
the  others,  dropping  here  and  there  a  word  of  en- 
couragement or  a  touch  of  aiding  fingers.  When 
night  came,  however,  and  she  found  an  opportu- 
nity for  a  few  words  alone  with  Daniel  Burton,  she 
told  him  that,  in  her  opinion,  Keith  had  done  the 
best  work  of  the  five,  and  that  it  was  perfectly  mar- 
velous the  way  he  was  taking  hold.  And  again  her 
eyes  sparkled  and  her  breath  quickened;  and  she 
spent  the  entire  ten  minutes  talking  about  Keith  to 


WHAT  SUSAN  DID  NOT  SEE        309 

his  father.  Yet  the  next  day,  when  the  work  began 
again,  she  still  went  to  the  back  of  every  chair  but 
Keith's. 

Things  happened  very  rapidly  after  that.  It  was 
not  a  week  before  the  first  long  table  in  the  big 
room  was  filled  with  eager  workers,  and  the  second 
one  had  to  be  added  to  take  care  of  the  newcomers. 

The  project  was  already  the  talk  of  the  town, 
and  not  the  least  excited  and  interested  of  the  ob- 
servers was  John  McGuire's  mother.  When  the 
news  came  of  the  second  table's  being  added  to  the 
equipment  of  the  place,  she  hurried  over  to  Susan's 
kitchen  without  delay  —  though  with  the  latest 
poem  of  her  son's  as  the  ostensible  excuse. 

"It's  'The  Stumbling-Block,' "  she  announced. 
"He  just  got  it  done  yesterday,  an'  I  copied  it  for 
you.  I  think  it 's  the  best  yet,"  she  beamed,  hand- 
ing over  a  folded  paper.  "  It 's  kind  of  long,  so  don't 
stop  to  read  it  now.  Say,  is  it  true?  Have  they  had 
to  put  in  another  table  at  that  blind  windin'-room?" 

"They  have." 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  the  greatest!  I  think  it's  just 
grand.  They  took  my  John  down  there  to  see  the 
place  yesterday.  Do  you  know?  That  boy  is  a  dif- 
ferent bein'  since  his  book  an'  his  writin*.  An'  he's 
learnin'  to  do  such  a  lot  of  things  for  himself,  an' 
he's  so  happy  in  it!  An'  he  doesn't  mind  seem' 
anybody  now.  An'  it's  all  owin'  to  your  wonder- 
ful Keith  an'  his  father.  I  would  n't  ever  have  be- 
lieved it  of  them." 

Susan's  chin  came  up  a  bit. 


310  DAWN 


a- 


1  would.  I  knew.  An'  I  always  told  you  that 
Daniel  Burton  was  a  superlative  man  in  every  way, 
an'  his  son 's  jest  like  him.  Only  you  would  n't  be- 
lieve me." 

"  Nobody  'd  believe  you,"  maintained  Mrs. 
McGuire  spiritedly.  "  Nobody  'd  believe  such  a 
thing  could  be  as  my  John  bein'  changed  like  that 
—  an'  all  those  others  down  to  the  windin'-room, 
too.  They  say  it's  perfectly  marvelous  what  Keith 
an'  his  father  are  doin'  with  those  men  an'  boys. 
Are  n't  they  awful  happy  over  it  —  Keith  an'  his 
father,  I  mean?" 

"Daniel  Burton  is.  Why,  he's  like  a  different 
man,  Mis'  McGuire.  You'd  know  that,  jest  to  see 
him  walk,  an'  hear  him  speak.  An'  I  don't  hear 
nothin'  more  about  his  longin'  to  get  over  there.  I 
guess  he  thinks  he's  got  work  enough  to  do  right 
here.  An'  he  hardly  ever  touches  his  war  maps 
these  days." 

"But  ain't  Keith  happy,  too?" 

"  Y-yes,  an'  no,"  hesitated  Susan,  her  face  cloud- 
ing a  little.  "Oh,  he's  gone  into  it  heart  an'  soul; 
an'  while  he's  workin'  on  somethin'  he's  all  right. 
But  when  it's  all  quiet,  an'  he's  settin'  alone,  I 
don't  like  the  look  on  his  face.  But  I  know  he's 
glad  to  be  helpin'  down  there;  an'  I  know  it's  help- 
in'  him,  too." 

"It's  helpin*  everybody — not  forgettin'  Miss 
Dorothy  Parkman,"  added  Mrs.  McGuire,  with  a 
smile  and  a  shrug,  as  she  rose  to  go.  "But,  then,  of 
course,  we  all  know  what  she's  after." 


WHAT  SUSAN  DID  NOT  SEE        311 

"After!  What  do  you  mean?" 

"Susan  Betts!"  With  a  jerk  Mrs.  McGuire 
faced  about.  "It  ain't  possible,  with  eyes  in  your 
head,  that  you  hain't  seen!" 

"Seen  what?" 

"Well,  my  Ian'!  With  that  girl  throwin'  herself 
at  Daniel  Burton's  head  for  the  last  six  weeks,  an* 
you  calmly  set  there  an'  ask  'seen  what?'!" 

"Daniel  Burton  —  Dorothy  Parkman!"  There 
was  no  mistaking  Susan's  dumfounded  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes,  Daniel  Burton  an'  Dorothy  Parkman. 
Oh,  I  used  to  think  it  was  Keith;  but  when  the 
money  came  to  old  Daniel  I  guess  she  thought  he 
was  n't  so  old,  after  all.  Besides,  Keith,  with  his 
handicap  —  you  could  n't  blame  the  girl,  after  all, 
I  s'pose." 

"Daniel  Burton  an'  Dorothy  Parkman!"  re- 
peated Susan,  this  time  with  the  faintness  of  stupe- 
faction. 

"Why,  Susan,  you  must  've  seen  it  —  her  run- 
nin'  in  here  every  day,  walkin'  home  with  him,  an' 
talk,  talk,  talkin'  to  him  every  chance  she  gets!" 

"But,  they  —  they've  been  makin'  plans  for  — 
for  the  work,"  murmured  Susan. 

"Work!  Well,  I  guess  it  no  need  to  've  taken 
quite  so  many  consultations  for  just  the  work.  Be- 
sides, she  never  thought  of  such  a  scheme  as  this 
before  the  money  came,  did  she?  Not  much  she  did! 
Oh,  come,  Susan,  wake  up!  She'll  be  walkin'  off 
with  him  right  under  your  nose  if  you  don't  look 


312  DAWN 

out,"  finished  Mrs.  McGuire  with  a  sly  laugh,  as 
she  took  her  departure. 

Left  alone,  Susan  sat  for  some  time  absorbed  in 
thought,  a  deep  frown  on  her  face;  then  with  a  sigh 
and  a  shrug,  as  if  throwing  off  an  incomprehensible 
burden,  she  opened  the  paper  Mrs.  McGuire  had 
left  with  her. 

Once,  twice,  three  times  she  read  the  verses;  then 
with  a  low  chuckle  she  folded  up  the  paper,  tucked 
it  into  her  apron  pocket,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  A 
minute  later  she  had  attacked  the  pile  of  dishes  in 
the  sink,  and  was  singing  lustily: 

"I've  taken  my  worries,  an'  taken  my  woes, 

I  have,  I  have, 
An'  shut  'em  up  where  nobody  knows, 

I  have,  I  have. 
I  chucked  'em  down,  that's  what  I  did, 
An'  now  I'm  sittin'  upon  the  lid, 
An'  we'll  all  feel  gay  when  Johnny  comes 

marchin'  home. 
I'm  sittin'  upon  the  lid,  I  am, 

Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
I'm  tryin'  to  be  a  little  lamb, 

Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
But  I'm  feelin'  more  like  a  great  big  slam 
Than  a  nice  little  peaceful  woolly  lamb, 
But  we'll  all  feel  gay  when  Johnny  comes 

marchin'  home." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE  KEY 

THERE  was  no  work  at  the  winding-room  Sat- 
urday afternoons,  and  it  was  on  Saturday 
afternoon  that  Susan  found  Keith  sitting  idle- 
handed  in  his  chair  by  the  window  in  the  living- 
room. 

As  was  her  custom  she  spoke  the  moment  she  en- 
tered the  room  —  but  not  before  she  had  noted  the 
listless  attitude  and  wistful  face  of  the  youth  over 
by  the  window. 

" Keith,  I've  been  thinkin\" 

"Bad  practice,  Susan  —  sometimes,"  he  laughed 
whimsically. 

"Not  this  time." 

"Poetry?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.  I  ain't  poetizin'  so  much  these  days, 
though  I  did  write  one  yesterday  —  about  the  ways 
of  the  world.  I'm  goin'  to  read  it  to  you,  too,  by 
an'  by.  But  that's  jest  a  common  poem  about 
common,  every-day  folks.  An'  this  thing  I  was 
thinkin'  about  was  —  was  diff'rent." 

"And  so  you  could  n't  put  this  into  a  poem  — 
eh?" 

Susan  shook  her  head  again  and  sighed. 

"No.  An'  it's  been  that  way  lots  o'  times  lately, 
'specially  since  I  seen  John  McGuire's  poems  —  so 


314  DAWN 

fine  an'  bumtious !  Oh,  I  have  the  perspiration  to 
write,  lots  o'  times,  an'  I  yield  up  to  it  an'  write.  But 
somehow,  when  it's  done,  I  hain't  said  a  mite  what 
I  want  to,  an'  I  hain't  said  it  the  way  I  want  to, 
neither.  I  think  maybe  havin'  so  many  of  'em  dis- 
inclined by  them  editors  has  made  me  kinder  fear- 
some." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  has,  Susan,"  he  smiled. 

"Now,  this  afternoon,  what  I  was  thinkin'  about 

—  once  I'd  've  made  a  poem  of  that  easy;  but  to- 
day I  did  n't  even  try.  I  knew  I  could  n't  do  it. 
An',  say,  Keith,  it  was  you  I  was  thinkin'  about." 

"Heavens,  Susan!  A  poem  out  of  me?  No  won- 
der your  muse  balked!  I'm  afraid  you'd  find  even 

—  er  —  perspiration  would  n't  make  a  poem  out 
of  me." 

"Keith,  do  you  remember?"  Susan  was  still 
earnest  and  preoccupied.  "I  told  you  once  that  it 
did  n't  make  no  diff 'rence  if  God  had  closed  the 
door  of  your  eyes.  He'd  open  up  another  room  to 
you  sometime,  an'  give  you  the  key  to  unlock  the 
door.  An'  he  has.  An'  now  you  've  got  it  —  that  key." 

"I've  got  it  — the  key!" 

"Yes.  It's  that  work  down  there  —  helpin' 
them  blind  men  an'  boys  to  get  hold  of  their  souls 
again.  Oh,  Keith,  don't  you  see?  An'  it's  such  a 
big,  wide  room  that  God  has  given  you,  an'  it 's  all 
yours.  There  ain't  no  one  that  can  help  them  poor 
blind  soldiers  like  you  can.  An'  you  could  n't  'a' 
done  it  if  the  door  of  your  eyes  had  n't  been  shut 
first.  That  was  what  give  you  the  key  to  this  big, 


THE  KEY  315 

beautiful  room  of  helpin'  our  boys  what's  come 
back  to  us,  blinded,  an'  half -crazed  with  despair  an' 
discouragement.  Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 
it  the  way  I  do !  But  I  can't  say  it  —  the  right  way. 
There 's  such  a  big,  beautiful  idea  there,  if  only  I 
could  make  you  see  it.  That's  why  I  wanted  to 
write  the  poem." 

"I  can  see  it,  Susan  —  without  the  poem." 
Keith  was  not  smiling  now.  His  face  was  turned 
away  and  his  voice  had  grown  a  bit  unsteady.  "And 
I'm  glad  you  showed  it  to  me.  It's  going  to  help 
me  a  whole  lot  if  —  if  I  '11  just  keep  remembering 
that  key,  I  think." 

Susan  threw  a  quick  look  into  Keith's  averted 
face,  then  promptly  she  reached  for  the  folded 
paper  in  her  apron,  pocket. 

There  were  times  when  Susan  was  wise  beyond 
her  station  as  to  when  the  subject  should  be 
changed. 

"An'  now  I'm  goin'  to  read  you  the  poem  I  did 
write,"  she  announced  briskly  — "about  every-day 
folks  —  diff'rent  kinds  of  folks.  Six  of  'em.  It 
shows  that  there  ain't  any  one  anywhere  that's 
really  satisfied  with  their  lot,  when  you  come  right 
down  to  it,  whether  they've  got  eyes  or  not." 

And  she  began  to  read: 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  beggar  girl  on  the  curbstone  sat, 

All  ragged  an'  hungry-eyed. 
Across  the  street  came  Peggy  McGee; 

The  beggar  girl  saw  an'  sighed. 


316  DAWN 

"I  wish'd  I  was  rich  —  as  rich  as  she, 
For  she  has  got  things  to  eat; 
An'  clo's  an'  shoes,  an'  a  place  to  live, 
An'  she  don't  beg  in  the  street." 


When  Peggy  McGee  the  corner  turned, 

She  climbed  to  her  garret  high. 
From  there  she  gazed  through  curtainless  panes 

At  hangin's  of  lace  near  by. 

"Ah,  me!"  sighed  Peggy.  "If  I  had  those, 
An'  rugs  like  hers  on  the  floor, 
It  seems  to  me  that  I'd  never  ask 
For  nothin'  at  all  no  more." 

From  out  those  curtains  that  selfsame  day, 
Looked  a  face  all  sour  an'  thin. 
"I  hate  to  live  on  this  horrid  street, 
In  the  children's  yellin'  din! 

"An'  where 's  the  good  of  my  nice  new  things, 
When  nobody '11  see  or  know? 
I  really  think  that  I  ought  to  be 
A-livin'  in  Rich  Man's  Row." 

A  carriage  came  from  "Rich  Man's  Row," 

An'  rumbled  by  to  the  park. 
A  lady  sat  on  the  carriage  seat; 
"Oh,  dear,"  said  she,  "what  an  ark! 

"If  only  this  coach  could  show  some  style, 
My  clothes,  so  shabby,  would  pass. 
Now  there's  an  auto  quite  my  kind  — 
But 't  is  n't  my  own  —  alas!" 


The  "auto"  carried  a  millionaire, 
Whose  brow  was  knotted  an'  stern. 
"A  million  is  nowhere,  now,"  thought  he, 
"That's  somethin'  we  all  must  learn. 

"It's  millions  many  one  has  to  have, 
To  be  in  the  swim  at  all. 


THE  KEY  317 

This  tryin'  to  live  when  one  is  so  poor 
Is  really  all  folderol!" 

A  man  of  millions  was  just  behind; 

The  beggar  was  passin'  by. 
Business  at  beggin'  was  good  that  day, 

An'  the  girl  was  eatin'  pie. 

The  rich  man  looked,  an'  he  groaned  aloud, 
An'  swore  with  his  gouty  pain. 
"I'd  give  my  millions,  an'  more  beside, 
Could  I  eat  like  that  again!" 

"Now,  ain't  that  jest  like  folks?"  Susan  de- 
manded, as  she  finished  the  last  verse. 

Keith  laughed. 

"I  suspect  it  is,  Susan.  And  —  and,  by  the  way, 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  this  were  quite  the  right 
time  to  show  that  I  'm  no  different  from  other  folks. 
You  see,  I,  too,  —  er  —  am  going  to  make  a  change 
—  in  living." 

"A  change  in  living!  What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  not  now  —  not  quite  yet.  But  you  see  I've 
been  doing  some  thinking,  too.  I've  been  think- 
ing that  if  father  —  that  is,  when  father  and  Miss 
Parkman  are  married  —  that  — " 

But  Susan  interrupted  with  a  groan. 

"My  sakes,  Keith,  have  you  seen  it,  too?" 

Keith  laughed  embarrassedly. 

"To  be  sure  I  have !  You  don't  have  to  have  eyes 
to  see  that,  do  you,  Susan?" 

"Oh,  good  Ian',  I  don't  know,"  frowned  Susan 
irritably.   "I  did  n't  s'pose  —  " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence  Keith  began  again  to  speak. 


318  DAWN 

"I've  been  talking  a  little  to  David  Patch  — 
the  superintendent,  you  know.  We're  going  to 
take  the  whole  house  where  we  are,  for  our  work, 
pretty  quick,  and  when  we  do,  Patch  and  his  wife 
will  come  there  to  live  upstairs;  and  they'll  take 
me  to  board.  I  asked  them.  Then  I'll  be  right 
there  handy  all  the  time,  you  see,  which  will  be  a 
fine  arrangement  all  around." 

"A  fine  arrangement,  indeed  —  with  you  'way 
off  down  there,  an'  livin'  with  David  Patch!" 

"But,  Susan,"  argued  Keith,  a  bit  wearily,  "I 
could  n't  be  living  here,  you  know." 

"I  should  like  to  know  why  not." 

"Because  I  —  could  n't."  He  had  grown  very 
white  now.  "Besides,  I  — I  think  they  would  be 
happier  without  me  here;  and  I  know  — - 1  should 
be."  His  voice  was  low  and  almost  indistinct, 
but  Susan  heard  —  and  understood.  "The  very 
fact  that  once  I  —  I  thought  — ■  that  I  was  foolish 
enough  to  think  — ■  But,  of  course,  as  soon  as  I  re- 
membered my  blindness  —  And  to  tie  a  beautiful 
young  girl  down  to — "  He  stopped  short  and 
pulled  himself  up.  "  Susan,  are  you  still  there?  " 

"I'm  right  here,  Keith."  Susan  spoke  constrain- 
edly. 

He  gave  an  embarrassed  laugh.  A  painful  red 
had  suffused  his  face. 

"I'm  afraid  I  got  to  talking  —  and  forgetting 
that  I  was  n't  —  alone,"  he  stumbled  on  hurriedly. 
"I  —  I  meant  to  go  on  to  say  that  I  hoped  they'd 
be  very  happy.    Dad  deserves  it;  and  —  and  if 


THE  KEY  319 

they'd  only  hurry  up  and  get  it  over  with,  it  —  it 
would  be  easier  —  for  me.  Not  that  it  matters,  of 
course.  Dad  has  had  an  awful  lot  to  put  up  with 
me  already,  as  it  is,  you  know  —  the  trouble,  the 
care,  and  the  disappointment.  You  see,  I  —  I  was 
going  to  make  up  to  him  for  all  he  had  lost.  I  was 
going  to  be  Jerry  and  Ned  and  myself,  all  in  a 
bunch.  And  now  to  turn  out  to  be  nothing  —  and 
worse  than  nothing  — " 

"Keith  Burton,  you  stop!"  It  was  the  old  im- 
perious Susan  back  again.  "You  stop  right  where 
you  be.  An'  don't  you  never  let  me  hear  you  say 
another  word  about  your  bein'  a  disappointment. 
Jerry  an'  Ned,  indeed!  I  wonder  if  you  think  a 
dozen  Jerrys  an'  Neds  could  do  what  you've  done! 
An'  no  matter  what  they  done,  they  could  n't  have 
done  a  bigger,  splendider  thing  than  you've  done 
in  triumphating  over  your  blindness  the  way  you 
've  done,  nor  one  that  would  make  your  father 
prouder  of  you !  An'  let  me  tell  you  another  thing, 
Keith  Burton.  No  matter  what  you  done  —  no 
matter  how  many  big  pictures  you  painted,  or  big 
books  you  wrote,  or  how  much  money  you  made 
for  your  dad;  there  ain't  anything  you  could  've 
done  that  would  do  him  so  much  solid  good  as 
what  you  have  done." 

"Why,  Susan,  are  you  wild?  I  haven't  done  a 
thing,  not  a  thing  for  dad." 

"Yes,  you  have.  You've  done  the  biggest  thing 
of  all  by  needin'  him." 

"Needing  him!" 


320  DAWN 

"Yes.  Keith  Burton,  look  at  your  father  now. 
Look  at  the  splendid  work  he's  doin\  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  he  used  to  be  a  thoroughly  in- 
sufficient, uncapacious  man  (though  I  would  n't 
let  anybody  else  say  it!),  putterin'  over  a  mess  of 
pictures  that  would  n't  sell  for  a  nickel.  An'  that 
he  used  to  run  from  anything  an'  everything  that 
was  unpropitious  an'  disagreeable,  like  he  was  bein' 
chased.  Well,  then  you  was  took  blind.  An'  what 
happened? 

"You  know  what  happened.  He  came  right  up 
an'  toed  the  mark  like  a  man  an'  a  gentleman. 
An'  he's  toed  it  ever  since.  An'  I  can  tell  you  that 
the  pictures  he's  paintin'  now  with  his  tongue  for 
them  poor  blind  boys  to  see  is  bigger  an'  better 
than  any  pictures  he  could  have  painted  with  — 
with  his  pigmy  paints  if  he  worked  on  'em  for  a 
thousand  years.  An'  it's  you  that's  done  it  for 
him,  jest  by  needin'  him.  So  there ! " 

And  before  Keith  could  so  much  as  open  his  lips, 
Susan  was  gone,  slamming  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN 

NOT  one  wink  did  Susan  Betts  sleep  that  night. 
To  Susan  her  world  was  tumbling  about  her 
ears  in  one  dizzy  whirl  of  destruction. 

Daniel  Burton  and  Dorothy  Parkman  married 
and  living  there,  and  her  beloved  blind  boy  ban- 
ished to  a  home  with  one  David  Patch?  Unthink- 
able !  And  yet  — ■ 

Well,  if  it  had  got  to  be,  it  had  got  to  be,  she 
supposed  —  the  marriage.  But  they  might  at 
least  be  decent  about  it.  As  for  keeping  that  poor 
blind  boy  harrowed  up  all  the  time  and  prolong- 
ing the  agony  —  well,  at  least  she  could  do  some- 
thing about  that,  thank  goodness !  And  she  would, 
too. 

When  there  was  anything  that  Susan  could  do 
—  particularly  in  the  line  of  righting  a  wrong  — 
she  lost  no  time  in  doing  it.  Within  two  days, 
therefore,  she  made  her  opportunity,  and  grasped 
it.  A  little  peremptorily  she  informed  Miss  Doro- 
thy Parkman  that  she  would  like  to  speak  to  her, 
please,  in  the  kitchen.  Then,  tall,  and  cold,  and 
very  stern,  she  faced  her. 

"Of  course,  I  understand,  Miss  Dorothy,  I'm 
bustlin'  in  where  I  hain't  no  business  to.  An'  I 
hain't  no  excuse  to  offer  except  my  boy,  Keith. 
It's    for  him  I'm  askin'  you  to  do  it." 


322  DAWN 

"To  do  —  what,  Susan?"  She  had  changed 
color  slightly,  as  she  asked  the  question. 

"Not  let  it  be  seen  so  plain  —  the  love-makin'." 

"Seen!  Love-making!"  gasped  the  girl. 

"Well,  the  talkin'  to  him,  then,  an'  whisper-in', 
an'  consulting,  an*  runnin'  here  every  day,  an'  — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Susan,"  interrupted  the  girl 
incisively.  She  had  grown  very  white.  "I  am 
tempted  to  make  no  sort  of  reply  to  such  an  absurd 
accusation;  but  I'm  going  to  say,  however,  that 
you  must  be  laboring  under  some  mistake.  I  do 
not  come  here  to  see  Mr.  Keith  Burton,  and  I've 
scarcely  exchanged  a  dozen  words  with  him  for 
months." 

"I'm  talkin'  about  Mr.  Daniel,  not  Keith, 
an'  —  " 

"Mr.  Daniel  Burton!" 

"Of  course!  Who  else?"  Susan  was  nettled 
now,  and  showed  it.  "I  don't  s'pose  you'll  deny 
runnin'  here  to  see  him,  an'  talkin'  to  him,  an'  — " 

"No,  no,  wait!  —  wait!  Don't  say  any  more, 
please  I"  The  girl  was  half  laughing,  half  crying, 
and  her  face  was  going  from  white  to  red  and  back 
to  white  again.  "Am  I  to  understand  that  I  am 
actually  being  accused  of  —  of  running  after  Mr. 
Daniel  Burton?  —  of  —  of  love-making  toward 
him?"  she  choked  incoherently. 

"Why,  y-yes;  that  is  —  er  — " 

"Oh,  this  is  too  much,  too  much!  First  Keith, 
and  now — "  She  broke  off  hysterically.  "To 
think  that  —  Oh,  Susan,  how  could  you,  how  could 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    323 

you!"  And  this  time  she  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  But  she  was 
laughing.   Very  plainly  she  was  laughing. 

Susan  frowned,  stared,  and  frowned  again. 

"Then  you  ain't  in  love  with  — "  Suddenly  her 
face  cleared,  and  broke  into  a  broad  smile.  "Well, 
my  Ian',  if  that  ain't  the  best  joke  ever!  Of  course, 
you  ain't  in  love  with  him !  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
more  'n  half  believed  it,  anyway.  Now  it  '11  be  dead 
easy,  an'  all  right,  too." 

"But  —  but  what  does  it  all  mean?"  stam- 
mered the  girl. 

"Why,  it's  jest  that  —  that  everybody  thought 
you  was  after  him,  an'  't  would  be  a  match  —  you 
bein'  together  so  much.  But  even  then  I  would  n't 
have  said  a  thing  if  it  had  n't  been  for  Keith." 

"Keith!" 

"Yes  —  poor  boy,  he  —  an'  it  was  hard  for  him, 
seein'  you  two  together  like  this,  an'  thinkin'  you 
cared  for  each  other.  An'  he  'd  got  his  plans  all  made 
how  when  you  was  married  he'd  go  an'  live  with 
David  Patch." 

"  David  Patch !  But  —  why?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  see?  'T  would  n't  be  very  easy 
to  see  you  married  to  another  man,  would  it?  — 
an'  lovin'  you  all  the  time  hisself,  an'  — " 

"Loving  me!" 

"That's  what  I  said."  Susan's  lips  came  sharply 
together  and  her  keen  eyes  swept  the  girl's  face. 

"But,  I  —  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  — 
again,"  faltered  the  girl,  growing  rosy. 


324  DAWN 

"I  ain't.  I've  always  suspicioned  it,  an'  now  I 
know  it." 

"But,  he  —  he's  acted  as  if  he  didn't  care  for 
me  at  all  —  as  if  he  hated  me." 

"That's  because  he  cared  so  much." 

"Nonsense,  Susan!" 

"  'T  ain't  nonsense.  It 's  sense.  As  I  told  you, 
I  've  always  suspicioned  it,  an'  last  Saturday,  when 
I  heard  him  talk,  I  knew.  He  as  good  as  owned  it 
up,  anyhow." 

"But  why  did  n't  he  —  he  tell  me?"  stammered 
the  girl,  growing  still  more  rosy. 

"Because  he  was  blind." 

"As  if  I'd  minded — "  She  stopped  abruptly 
and  turned  away  her  face. 

Susan  drew  a  resolute  breath  and  squared  her 
shoulders. 

"Then  why  don't  you  do  somethin'?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Do  something?" 

"Yes,  to — to  show  him  that  you  don't 
mind." 

"Oh,  Susan,  I  —  I  could  n't  do  —  that." 

"All  right.  Settle  back,  then,  an'  do  nothin'; 
an'  he'll  settle  back  an'  do  nothin',  an'  there'll  be  a 
pretty  pair  of  you,  eatin'  your  hearts  out  with  love 
for  each  other,  an'  passin'  each  other  by  with  con- 
verted faces  an'  highbrow  chins;  an'  all  because 
you're  afraid  of  offendin'  Mis'  Grundy,  who  don't 
care  no  more  about  you  than  two  sticks.  But  I 
s'pose  you'd  both  rather  be  miserable  than  brace 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    325 

up  an'  defy  the  properties  an*  live  long  an*  be 
happy  ever  after." 

"But  if  I  could  be  sure  he  —  cared,"  spoke  the 
girl,  in  a  faint  little  voice. 

"You  would  have  been,  if  you'd  seen  him  Satur- 
day, as  I  did." 

"And  if—" 

"If  —  if  —  if!"  interrupted  Susan  impatiently. 
"An'  there  that  poor  blind  boy  sets  an'  thinks  an' 
thinks  an'  thinks,  an'  longs  for  some  one  that  loves 
him  to  smooth  his  pillow  an'  rumple  his  hair,  an' — " 

"Susan,  I'm  going  to  do  it.  I'm  going  to  do  it!" 
vowed  the  girl,  springing  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  like 
stars,  her  cheeks  like  twin  roses. 

"Do  what?"  demanded  Susan. 

"I  don't  know.  But,  I'm  going  to  do  something. 
Anyhow,  whatever  I  do  I  know  I  'm  going  to  —  to 
defy  the  *  properties,'"  she  babbled  deliriously,  as 
she  hurried  from  the  room,  looking  very  much  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  hide  from  herself. 

Four  days  later,  Keith,  in  his  favorite  chair,  sat 
on  the  south  piazza.  It  was  an  April  day,  but  it 
was  like  June,  and  the  window  behind  him  was 
wide  open  into  the  living-room.  He  did  not  hear 
Dorothy  Parkman's  light  step  up  the  walk.  He  did 
not  know  that  she  had  paused  at  sight  of  him  sit- 
ting there,  and  had  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  and 
then  that  she  had  almost  run,  light-footed,  into  the 
house,  again  very  much  as  if  she  were  trying  to  run 
away  from  herself.  But  he  did  hear  her  voice  two 
minutes  later,  speaking  just  inside  the  window. 


326  DAWN 

At  the  first  sentence  he  tried  to  rise,  then  with  a 
despairing  gesture  as  if  realizing  that  flight  would  be 
worse  than  to  remain  where  he  was,  he  sat  back 
in  his  chair.  And  this  is  what  he  heard  Dorothy 
Parkman  say: 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Burton,  please — I —  I  can't 
marry  you.  You'll  have  to  understand.  No  — 
don't  speak,  don't  say  anything,  please.  There's 
nothing  you  could  say  that  —  that  would  make  a 
bit  of  difference.  It 's  just  that  I  —  I  don't  love 
you  and  I  do  —  love  somebody  else  —  Keith,  your 
son  —  yes,  you  have  guessed  it.  Oh,  yes,  I  know 
we  don't  seem  to  be  much  to  each  other,  now.  But 
—  but  whether  we  ever  are,  or  not,  there  can't 
ever  be  —  any  one  else.  And  I  think  —  he  cares. 
It 's  just  that  —  that  his  pride  won't  let  him  speak. 
As  if  his  dear  eyes  did  n't  make  me  love  him  — 

"But  I  must  n't  say  all  this  —  to  you.  It's  just 
that  —  that  I  wanted  you  to  surely  —  under- 
stand. And  —  and  I  must  go,  now.  I  —  must  — 
go!" 

And  she  went.  She  went  hurriedly,  a  little  nois- 
ily. She  shut  one  door,  and  another;  then,  out  on 
the  piazza  she  came  face  to  face  with  Keith  Burton. 

"Dorothy,  oh,  Dorothy  —  I  heard!" 

And  then  it  was  well,  indeed,  that  the  Japanese 
screen  on  the  front  piazza  was  down,  for  Keith 
stood  with  his  arms  outstretched,  and  Dorothy, 
with  an  ineffably  contented  little  indrawn  breath, 
walked  straight  into  them.  And  with  that  light 
on  his  face,  she  would  have  walked  into  them  had 


IT    WAS   WELL   THAT   THE   JAPANESE   SCREEN   ON   THE   FRONT 
PIAZZA  WAS  DOWN 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    327 

he  been  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  out- 
side. 

To  Dorothy  at  that  moment  nobody  in  all  the 
world  counted  for  a  feather's  weight  except  the 
man  who  was  holding  her  close,  with  his  lips  to 
hers. 

Later,  a  little  later,  when  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  piazza  settee,  and  when  coherence  and  logic 
had  become  attributes  to  their  conversation,  Keith 
sighed,  with  a  little  catch  in  his  voice: 

"The  only  thing  I  regret  about  this  —  all  this  — 
the  only  thing  that  makes  me  feel  cheap  and  mean, 
is  that  I  've  won  where  dad  lost  out.  Poor  old  dad ! " 

There  was  the  briefest  of  pauses,  then  a  small, 
subdued  voice  said: 

"I  —  I  suspect,  Keith,  confession  is  good  for  the 
soul." 

"Well?"  he  demanded  in  evident  mystification. 

"Anyhow,  I  —  I'll  have  to  do  it.  Your  father 
was  n't  there  at  all." 

"But  I  heard  you  speaking  to  him,  my  dear." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  stole  a  look  into  his  face, 
then  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  choking  sob  of 
heartache  because  he  could  not  see  the  love  she 
knew  was  in  her  eyes.  But  the  heartache  only 
nerved  her  to  say  the  words  that  almost  refused  to 
come.  "He  —  he  wasn't  there,"  she  repeated, 
fencing  for  time. 

"But  who  was  there?  I  heard  you  call  him  by 
name,  'Mr.  Burton,'  clearly,  distinctly.  I  know  I 
did." 


328  DAWN 

"But  —  but  he  was  n't  there.  Nobody  was  there. 
I  —  I  was  just  talking  to  myself." 

"You  mean  —  practicing  what  you  were  going 
to  say?"  questioned  Keith  doubtfully.   "And  that 

—  that  he  does  n't  know  yet  that  you  are  going  to 
refuse  him?" 

"N-no  —  er — well,  yes.  That  is,  I  mean,  it's 
true.  He  —  he  does  n't  know  I  am  going  to  refuse 
him."  There  was  a  hint  of  smothered  laughter  in 
the  girl's  voice. 

"Dorothy!"  The  arm  about  her  waist  percepti- 
bly loosened  and  almost  fell  away.  "Why,  I  don't 
feel  now  that  —  that  you  half  belong  to  me,  yet. 
And  —  and  think  of  poor  dad!" 

The  girl  caught  her  breath  and  stole  another 
look  into  his  face. 

"But,  Keith,  you — you  don't  understand.   He 

—  he  has  n't  proposed  to  me  yet.  That  is,  I  mean," 
she  amended  hastily,  "he  —  he  is  n't  going  to  pro- 
pose to  me  —  ever." 

"But  he  was.  He  —  cares.  And  now  he'll  have 
to  know  about  —  us." 

"But  he  was  n't  —  he  does  n't.  You  don't  un- 
derstand, Keith.  He  —  he  never  thought  of  —  of 
proposing  to  me.  I  know  he  did  n't." 

"Then  why  —  what —  Dorothy,  what  do  you 
mean  by  all  this?" 

"Why,  it's  just  that  —  that  is  —  I  —  oh,  Keith, 
Keith,  why  will  you  make  me  tell  you?"  she  cried 
between  hysterical  little  laughs  and  sobs.  "And 
yet  —  I'd  have  to  tell  you,  of  course.  I  —  I  knew 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    329 

you  were  there  on  the  porch,  and  —  and  I  knew 
you  'd  hear  —  what  I  said.  And  so,  to  make  you 
understand  —  oh,  Keith,  it  was  awful,  but  I  — •  I 
pretended  that  — " 

"  You  —  darling ! "  breathed  an  impassioned  voice 
in  her  ear.  "Oh,  how  I  love  you,  love  you  —  for 
that!" 

"Oh,  but,  Keith,  it  really  was  awful  of  me,"  she 
cried,  blushing  and  laughing,  as  she  emerged  from 
his  embrace.  "Susan  told  me  to  defy  the  'proper- 
ties '  and  —  and  I  did  it." 

"Susan!" 

She  nodded. 

"That's  how  I  knew  —  for  sure  —  that  you 
cared." 

"And  so  I  owe  it  all  —  even  my  —  er  —  pro- 
posal of  marriage,  to  Susan,"  he  bantered  mis- 
chievously. 

"Keith,  I  did  not  —  er  —  it  was  not  a  proposal 
of  marriage." 

"No?    But  you're  going  to  marry  me,  aren't 

you?" 

Her  chin  came  up. 

"I  —  I  shall  wait  till  I'm  asked,"  she  retorted 
with  dignity. 

"Hm-m;  well,  I  reckon  it's  safe  to  say  you'll  be 
asked.  And  so  I  owe  it  all  to  Susan.  Well,  it  is  n't 
the  first  good  thing  I  've  owed  to  her  —  bless  her 
heart!  And  she's  equal  to  'most  anything.  But 
I  '11  wager,  in  this  case,  that  even  Susan  had  some 
stunt  to  perform.  How  did  she  do  it?  " 


330  DAWN 

"She  told  me  that  you  —  you  thought  your  fa- 
ther and  I  cared  for  each  other,  and  that  —  that 
you  cared  for  me;  but  that  you  were  very  brave  and 
were  going  to  go  away,  and  —  leave  us  to  our  hap- 
piness. Then,  when  she  found  there  was  nothing  to 
the  other  part  of  it,  and  that  I  —  I  cared  for  you, 
she  —  well,  I  don't  know  how  she  did  it,  but  she 
said  —  well,  I  did  it.  That's  all." 

Keith  chuckled. 

"Exactly!  You  could  n't  have  described  it  bet- 
ter. We ' ve  always  done  what  Susan  wanted  us  to, 
and  we  never  could  tell  why.  We  —  we  just  did  it. 
That's  all.  And,  oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  did  this,  little 
girl,  so  glad!" 

"Yes,  but  — •"  She  drew  away  from  him  a  little, 
and  her  voice  became  severely  accusing.  "Keith 
Burton,  you  —  you  should  have  done  it  yourself, 
and  you  know  it." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  couldn't."  A  swift  shadow  fell  like  a  cloud 
over  his  countenance.  "Darling,  even  now  —  Dor- 
othy, do  you  fully  realize  what  you  are  doing?  All 
your  life  to  be  tied  — " 

"Hush!"  Her  finger  was  on  his  lips  only  to  be 
kissed  till  she  took  it  away.  "I  won't  let  you  talk 
like  that  a  minute  —  not  a  single  minute !  But, 
Keith,  there  is  something  I  want  you  to  say."  Her 
voice  was  half  pleading,  half  whimsical.  Her  eyes, 
through  her  tears,  were  studying  his  face,  turned 
partly  away  from  her.  "  Confession  is  good  for  the 
soul." 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    331 

"Well?  Anything  more?"  He  smiled  faintly. 

"Yes ;  only  this  time  it 's  you.  You  've  got  to  do  it." 

"I?" 

"Yes."  Her  voice  rang  with  firm  decision. 
"Keith,  I  want  to  know  why  —  why  all  this  time 
you ' ve  acted  so  —  so  that  I  had  to  find  out  through 
Susan  that  you  —  cared.  And  I  want  to  know  — 
when  you  stopped  hating  me.  And — " 

"Dorothy  —  I  never,  never  hated  you!"  cut  in 
the  man  passionately. 

"But  you  acted  as  if  you  did.  Why,  you  —  you 
would  n't  let  me  come  near  you,  and  you  were  so  — 
angry  with  me." 

"Yes,  I  —  know."  The  man  fell  back  in  his 
chair  and  was  silent. 

There  was  a  long  minute  of  waiting. 

"Keith." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  confessed  mine,  and  yours  can't  be  any 
harder  than  —  mine  was." 

Still  he  hesitated;  then,  with  a  long  breath  he  be- 
gan to  speak. 

"Dorothy,  it  —  it's  just  that  I've  had  so  much 
to  fight.  And  —  it  has  n't  been  easy.  But,  listen, 
dear.  I  think  I've  loved  you  from  away  back  in 
the  days  when  you  wore  your  hair  in  two  thick  pig- 
tails down  your  back.  You  know  I  was  only  four- 
teen when  —  when  the  shadows  began  to  come. 
One  day,  away  back  then,  I  saw  you  shudder  once 
at  —  blindness.  We  were  talking  about  old  Joe 
Harrington.   And  I  never  forgot  it." 


332  DAWN 

"But  it  was  only  because  I  pitied  him." 

"Yes;  but  I  thought  then  that  it  was  more  aver- 
sion. You  said  you  could  n't  bear  to  look  at  them. 
And  you  see  I  feared,  even  then,  that  I  was  going 
to  be  like  old  Joe  some  time." 

"Oh,  Keith!" 

"Well,  it  came.  I  was  like  old  Joe  —  blind.  And 
I  knew  that  I  was  the  object  of  curiosity  and  pity, 
and,  I  believed,  aversion,  wherever  I  went.  And, 
oh,  I  so  hated  it!  I  did  n't  want  to  be  stared  at, 
and  pointed  out,  and  pitied.  I  did  n't  want  to  be 
different.  And  above  all  I  didn't  want  to  know 
that  you  were  turning  away  from  me  in  aversion 
and  disgust." 

"Oh,  Keith,  Keith,  as  if  I  ever  could!"  faltered 
the  girl. 

"I  thought  you  could  —  and  would.  I  used  to 
picture  you  all  in  the  dark,  as  I  used  to  see  you  with 
your  bright  eyes  and  pretty  hair,  and  I  could  see 
the  look  on  your  face  as  you  turned  away  shudder- 
ing. That's  when  I  determined  at  all  costs  to  keep 
out  of  your  sight  —  until  I  should  be  well  again.  I 
was  going  to  be  well,  of  course,  then,  you  know. 
Well,  in  time  I  went  West,  and  on  the  way  I  met 

—  Miss  Stewart." 

"Yes."  Dorothy's  voice  was  not  quite  steady. 

"I  liked  Miss  Stewart.  She  was  wonderfully 
good  to  me.  At  first  —  at  the  very  first  —  she  gave 
me  quite  a  start.   Her  voice  sounded  so  much  like 

—  Dorothy  Parkman's.    But  very  soon  I  forgot 
that,  and  just  gave  myself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    333 

her  companionship.  I  wasn't  afraid  with  her  — 
that  her  eyes  were  turned  away  in  aversion  and  dis- 
gust. Some  way,  I  just  knew  that  she  was  n't  like 
—  Dorothy  Parkman.  You  see,  I  had  n't  forgotten 
Dorothy.  Some  day  I  was  going  back  to  her  — 
seeing. 

"Well,  you  know  what  happened  —  the  opera- 
tions, the  specialists,  the  years  of  waiting,  the  trip 
to  London,  then  home,  hopelessly  blind.  It  was 
not  easy  then,  Dorothy,  but  —  I  tried  to  be  a  man. 
Most  of  all  I  felt  for  —  dad.  He  'd  had  so  many 
hopes  —  But,  never  mind;  and,  anyhow,  what 
Susan  said  the  other  day  helped  —  But  this  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you,  dear.  To  go  on:  I  gave 
you  up  then  definitely.  I  know  that  all  the  while 
I'd  been  having  you  back  in  my  mind,  young  as 
I  was  —  that  some  day  I  was  going  to  be  big  and 
strong  and  rich  and  have  my  eyes;  and  that  then 
I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  marry  me.  But  when  I 
got  home,  hopelessly  blind,  that  ended  it.  I  did  n't 
believe  you  would  have  me,  anyway;  but  even  if 
you  would,  I  was  n't  going  to  give  you  the  chance 
of  always  having  to  turn  away  in  aversion  and 
disgust  from  the  sight  of  your  husband." 

"Oh,  Keith,  how  could  you!" 

"I  could  n't.  But  you  see  how  I  felt.  Then,  one 
day  I  heard  Miss  Stewart's  voice  in  the  hall,  and, 
oh,  how  good  it  sounded  to  me!  I  think  I  must 
have  caught  her  hand  very  much  as  the  drowning 
man  grasps  at  the  straw.  She  would  never  turn 
away  from  me !  With  her  I  felt  safe,  happy,  and  at 


334  DAWN 

peace.  I  don't  think  I  exactly  understood  my  state 
of  mind  myself.  I  did  n't  think  I  was  in  love  with 
her,  yet  with  her  I  was  happy,  and  I  was  never 
afraid. 

"But  I  did  n't  have  a  chance  long  to  question. 
Almost  at  once  came  the  day  when  Mazie  Sanborn 
ran  up  the  steps  and  spoke  —  to  you.  And  I  knew. 
My  whole  world  seemed  tumbling  to  destruction  in 
one  blinding  crash.  You  can  never  know,  dear, 
how  utterly  dismayed  and  angry  and  helpless  I 
felt.  All  that  I  knew  was  that  for  months  and 
months  I  had  let  Dorothy  Parkman  read  to  me, 
play  with  me,  and  talk  to  me  —  that  I  had  been 
eager  to  take  all  the  time  she  would  give  me;  when 
all  the  while  she  had  been  doing  it  out  of  pity,  of 
course,  and  I  could  see  just  how  she  must  have  been 
shuddering  and  turning  away  her  eyes  all  the  long, 
long  weeks  she  had  been  with  me,  at  different  times. 
But  even  more  than  that,  if  possible,  was  the  cha- 
grin and  dismay  with  which  I  realized  that  all  the 
while  I  had  been  cheated  and  deceived  and  made  a 
fool  of,  because  I  was  blind,  and  could  not  see.  I 
had  been  tricked  into  putting  myself  in  such  a  posi- 
tion." 

"No,  no!  You  did  n't  understand,"  protested  the 
girl. 

"Of  course,  I  did  n't  understand,  dear.  Nobody 
who  is  blinded  with  rage  and  hurt  pride  can  under- 
stand —  anything,  rightly." 

"But  you  would  n't  let  me  explain  afterwards." 

"No,  I  didn't  want  you  to  explain.   I  was  too 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    335 

sore,  too  deeply  hurt,  too  —  well,  I  could  n't. 
That's  all.  Besides,  I  did  n't  want  you  to  know  — 
how  much  I  was  caring  about  it  all.  So,  a  little 
later,  when  I  did  see  you,  I  tried  to  toss  it  all  off 
lightly,  as  of  no  consequence  whatever." 

"Well,  you  —  succeeded,"  commented  Dorothy 
dryly. 

"I  had  to,  you  see.  I  had  found  out  then  how 
much  I  really  did  care.  I  knew  then  that  somehow 
you  and  Miss  Stewart  were  hopelessly  mixed  up  in 
my  heart,  and  that  I  loved  you,  and  that  the  world 
without  you  was  going  to  be  one  big  desert  of  lone- 
liness and  longing.  You  see,  it  had  not  been  so 
hard  to  give  you  up  in  imagination;  but  when  it 
came  to  the  real  thing  — " 

"But,  Keith,  why  —  why  did  you  insist  that  you 
must?" 

"Do  you  think  I'd  ask  you  or  anybody  to  tie 
yourself  to  a  helpless  creature  who  would  probably 
finally  end  up  on  a  street  corner  with  a  tin  cup  for 
pennies?  Besides,  in  your  case,  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  shudders  and  the  averted  eyes.  I  still  was  so 
sure  — 

"Then  John  McGuire  came  home  blind;  and  af- 
ter a  while  I  found  I  could  help  him.  And,  Doro- 
thy, then  is  when  I  learned  that  —  that  perhaps  you 
were  as  happy  in  doing  things  for  me  as  I  had  been 
in  doing  them  for  John  McGuire.  I  sort  of  forgot 
the  shudders  and  the  averted  eyes  then.  Besides, 
along  about  that  time  we  had  got  back  to  almost 
our  old  friendliness  —  the  friendliness  and  com- 


336  DAWN 

panionship  of  Miss  Stewart  and  me.  Then  the 
money  came  and  I  knew  that  at  least  I  never 
should  have  to  ask  you  to  subsist  on  what  the  tin 
cup  of  pennies  could  bring!  And  I  had  almost  be- 
gun to  —  to  actually  plan,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
you  stopped  coming,  right  off  short." 

"But  I  —  I  went  away,"  defended  the  girl,  a 
little  faintly. 

"Not  at  once.  You  were  here  in  town  a  long 
time  after  that.  I  knew  because  I  used  to  hear 
about  you.  I  was  sure  then  that  —  that  you  had 
seen  I  was  caring  for  you,  and  so  you  stayed  away. 
Besides,  it  came  back  to  me  again  —  my  old  fear 
of  your  pity  and  aversion,  of  your  eyes  turned 
away.  You  see,  always,  dear,  that 's  been  a  sort  of 
obsession  with  me,  I  guess.  I  hate  to  feel  that  any 
one  is  looking  at  me  —  watching  me.  To  me  it 
seems  like  spying  on  me  because  I  — I  can't  look 
back.  Yes,  I  know  it 's  all  very  foolish  and  very  silly ; 
but  we  are  all  foolish  and  silly  over  something.  It 's 
because  of  that  feeling  that  I  —  I  so  hate  to  enter  a 
room  and  know  that  some  one  is  there  who  won't 
speak  —  who  tries  to  cheat  me  into  thinking  I  am 
alone.  I  —  I  can't  bear  it,  Dorothy.  Just  because 
I  can't  see  them  — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  the  girl. 

"Well,  in  December  you  went  away.  Oh,  I  knew 
when  you  went.  I  knew  a  lot  of  things  that  you 
did  n't  know  I  knew.  But  I  was  trying  all  those 
days  to  put  you  quite  out  of  my  mind,  and  I  busied 
myself  with  John  McGuire  and  told  myself  that  I 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    337 

was  satisfied  with  my  work;  that  I  had  put  you 
entirely  out  of  my  life. 

"Then  you  came  back  in  February,  and  I  knew 
I  had  n't.  I  knew  I  loved  you  more  than  ever. 
Just  at  first,  the  very  first,  I  thought  you  had  come 
back  to  me.  Then  I  saw  —  that  it  was  dad.  After 
that  I  tried  —  oh,  you  don't  know  how  hard  I 
tried  —  to  kill  that  wicked  love  in  my  heart.  Why, 
darling,  nothing  would  have  hired  me  to  let  you  see 
it  then.  Let  dad  know  that  his  loving  you  hurt  me? 
Fail  dad  there,  as  I  had  failed  him  everywhere 
else?  I  guess  not!  This  was  something  I  could  do. 
I  could  let  him  have  you,  and  never,  never  let  him 
know.  So  I  buried  myself  in  work  and  tried  to  — • 
forget. 

"Then  to-day  you  came.  At  the  first  sound  of 
your  voice  in  there,  when  I  realized  what  you  were 
saying  (to  dad,  I  supposed),  I  started  up  and  would 
have  gone.  Then  I  was  afraid  you  would  see  me 
pass  the  window,  and  that  it  would  be  worse  if  I 
went  than  if  I  stayed.  Besides,  right  away  I  heard 
words  that  made  me  so  weak  with  joy  and  amaze- 
ment that  my  knees  bent  under  me  and  I  had  to  sit 
down.  And  then  —  but  you  know  the  rest,  dear." 

"Yes,  I  know  the  rest;  and  I'll  tell  you,  some 
time,  why  I  —  I  stopped  coming  last  fall." 

"All  right;  but  even  that  does  n't  matter  to  me 
now;  for  now,  in  spite  of  my  blind  eyes,  the  way 
looks  all  rosy  ahead.  Why,  dear,  it's  like  the  dawn 
—  the  dawn  of  a  new  day.  And  I  used  to  so  love 
the  dawn!    You  don't  know,  but  years  ago,  with 


338  DAWN 

dad,  I'd  go  camping  in  the  woods,  and  sometimes 
we'd  stay  all  night  on  the  mountain.  I  loved  that, 
for  in  the  morning  we'd  watch  the  sun  come  up 
and  flood  the  world  with  light.  And  it  seemed  so 
wonderful,  after  the  dark!  And  it's  like  that  with 
me  to-day,  dear.  It 's  my  dawn  —  the  dawn  of  a 
new  day.  And  it 's  so  wonderful  —  after  the  dark ! " 

"  Oh,  Keith,  I  'm  so  glad !  And,  listen,  dear.  It 's 
not  only  dawn  for  you,  but  for  all  those  blind  boys 
down  there  that  you  are  helping.  You  have  opened 
their  eyes  to  the  dawn  of  their  new  day.  Don't 
you  see?  " 

Keith  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  little  catch. 

"Have  I?  Do  you  think  I  have?  Oh,  I  should 
like  to  think  —  that.  I  don't  know,  of  course, 
about  them.  But  I  do  know  about  myself.  And  I 
know  it's  the  most  wonderful  dawn  ever  was  for 
me.  And  I  know  that  with  your  little  hand  in 
mine  I  '11  walk  fearlessly  straight  on,  with  my  chin 
up.  And  now  that  I  know  dad  doer  n't  care,  and 
that  he  is  n't  going  to  be  unhappy  about  my  lov- 
ing you  and  your  loving  me,  I  have  n't  even  that 
to  fear." 

"And,  oh,  Keith,  think,  think  what  it  would 
have  been  if  —  if  I  had  n't  defied  the  'properties,' ' 
she  faltered  mistily. 

"Dear  old  Susan  —  bless  her  heart!  And  that 
is  n't  all  I  owe  her.  Something  she  said  the  other 
day  made  me  hope  that  maybe  I  had  n't  even  quite 
failed  —  dad.  And  I  so  wanted  to  make  good  — 
for  dad!" 


AND  ALL  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  SUSAN    339 

"And  you've  done  it,  Keith." 

"But  maybe  he  —  he  does  n't  think  so." 

"But  he  does.  He  told  me." 

"He  told  you!" 

"Yes  —  last  night.  He  said  that  once  he  had 
great  plans  for  you,  great  ambitions,  but  that  he 
never  dreamed  he  could  be  as  proud  of  you  as  he  is 
right  now  —  what  you  had  done  for  yourself,  and 
what  you  were  doing  for  those  boys  down  there." 

"Did  dad  say  that?" 

"Yes."     • 

"And  to  think  of  my  having  that,  and  you,  too!" 
breathed  the  man,  his  arm  tightening  about  her. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S   .  A 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  1 1 1  561     7 


